


A Touch of Darkfic, Vol. III

by VagrantWriter



Series: Reader Requests [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Torture, Crossdressing, Dark!Theon, Demons, Drug Use, Drugged Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Feminization, Gangbang, Gangs, Gun Kink, Implied Cannibalism, M/M, Mind Control, Object Insertion, Pseudo-Necrophilia, Religious Cults, Robot/Human Relationships, Robots, Role Reversal, Undead, Victim Blaming, fake mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23323159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: Yet more twisted reader requests and prompts.Ch. 1 Offering: Theon offers something he shouldn'tCh. 2 Re-Initiating: Theon reconsiders his place in Ramsay's gangCh. 3 Sneaking: Ramsay is useful to TheonCh. 4 Improvising: Reek and Ramsay mess up Roose's deskCh. 5 Missing: Detective Greyjoy runs afoul of Ramsay's gangCh. 6 Needing: Ramsay has what Theon needsCh. 7 Acting: Theon meets a dead man in a barCh. 8 Carrying: Ramsay wants to start a family with ReekCh. 9 Forgiving: Reek needs to earn Ramsay's forgivenessCh. 10 Bargaining: Theon has to pay his tabCh. 11 Programming: Ramsay personalizes his new merchandiseCh. 12 Swearing: Sansa meets Theon again before the Battle of the BastardsCh. 13 Living: Winter is here and Ramsay needs ReekCh. 14 Browsing: Robb meets an old friend at the pet storeCh. 15 Promising: Jon and Euron bargain over TheonCh. 16 Hopping: Theon entertains the BoysCh. 17 Whipping: Roose teaches Ramsay a lessonCh. 18 Chasing: Theon didn't intend to be chased this evening
Relationships: Euron Greyjoy/Jon Snow, Euron Greyjoy/Theon Greyjoy, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Series: Reader Requests [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/417202
Comments: 296
Kudos: 154





	1. Offering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deiwimin asked for a fic where:
> 
> _Ramsay is part of a cult, and Theon is the sacrifice. A little clash with Roose would be fun. Maybe because he's not a 'proper' offering. But they go along with it anyway._
> 
> This fill is probably as jumbled as my thoughts are right now. Hopefully it adds to the atmosphere.

Theon couldn’t see, but he could _feel_. His wrists bound over his head, his weight sagging against the saltire. The sweat dripping down his goose-pimpled skin. All of it bare. And he could _hear_. His own panicked breathing, wet and muffled by the gag in his mouth. The quiet murmur of voices—how many? He couldn’t say. And he could _smell_. The incense, the sulfur, the stink of rotted meat and the coppery tang of blood.

His entire body trembled, pulled taut and vulnerable. He didn’t know where he was. Or why.

He remembered…he didn’t know what he remembered. Last night went racing by in a drunken blur. Out drinking with the lads. Well, with the lads and Jon. Images of Robb…they’d made a toast to their friendship. Robb had smiled at him. A telling sort of smile. Theon had placed his hand on top of Robb’s, tracing circles on Robb’s wrist. No, that hadn’t been him. It had been that woman. The one with the brown hair. Sitting between them, uninvited. Placing her hand on top of Robb’s, laughing at his jokes like she knew him. Like she had any right to flirt with him.

The sound of footsteps cut straight through his thoughts, and the murmuring died away. Someone with a measured gait, thick-heeled boots ringing off of stone. Theon knew that sort of echoing from his handful of experiences in church, sitting in a pew between Robb and Jon, quietly thinking what bullshit it all was. Every sound echoed in a church. The high ceilings, meant to reach up towards God and heaven, really only threw your own human voice back at you.

Was that where he was now? A church? Or something close enough to it.

The footsteps drew nearer, and Theon felt a dread he hadn’t known since he was a child, under the gaze of Uncle Euron. He flinched when he felt a presence by his side and a hand grabbed hold of his chin. “ _This_ is your offering, Ramsay?”

Theon also knew disdain when he heard it.

“Is something wrong with him?” This was another voice, farther back, where the other voices had been murmuring before. There was something familiar about that voice, though Theon couldn’t place it, no more than he could place where he was or why.

The hand on his chin turned his head this way and that. The blindfold allowed in no light, but Theon got the distinct sensation of eyes raking up and down his body. His shivered.

“Is he a virgin?” the first voice, an older man’s, asked.

The second, the familiar voice— _Ramsay_ —scoffed. “Not after last night. Doubt he was before that, the way he was so quick to jump on my dick.”

Theon remembered putting his hand on top of _somebody’s_ at the bar.

“Not ideal,” the older man said.

“He’s fine,” the younger man argued, voice rising in volume, rising up to the high stone ceilings of this…place, wherever they were. “Better than fine. He’s worth more than the last five bimbos we gave Him.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because he _likes_ pain.”

There was a pause.

“Is that true, boy?” The hand released Theon’s chin and pulled the gag out of his mouth. “Do you like pain?”

“P-please,” Theon whimpered. “Let me go, I—”

“Answer my question.” Sharp nails dug into his cheek, drawing out a pained gasp. “Do you like pain? Do you need it, to distract your body and cleanse your mind of those sinful thoughts?”

Sinful thoughts? There was hardly a sinful thought Theon hadn’t had, and he had no qualms about who knew it. Everyone who knew him knew he was a creature of excess, of overindulgence, that he had not a shred of temperance in his being, that when he saw something or some _one_ he wanted…

_…Robb…_

…he didn’t hesitate, he didn’t…

The nails digging into his flesh disappeared. “I see,” the older man said. “Very well. He’ll do.” The cold presence moved away, and Theon sagged back against the saltire. His body felt heavier than before, like it was made of lead, pulling on his bound wrists. “Would you care to do the honors, Ramsay?”

The…honors?

“Really?” The young man’s voice rose an octave and cracked. Then, with a cough, Ramsay repeated, more soberly, “Really? You’d let me?”

“It’s _your_ offering.”

A new set of footsteps approached, but Theon’s head was still spinning. “Please, please, please,” he murmured, over and over again, chin hanging against his chest. “Whatever you want…” He heard his own words echoing back to him from drunken memories. Putting his hand over somebody else’s, tracing circles on that person’s wrist, making his voice low and husky. _“Whatever you want.”_

Another presence, much closer than the first. Hot breath against his face. “What’s that, sweetheart?”

The young man’s voice. Ramsay’s.

“Please.” Theon lifted his head. He couldn’t see, but he could _feel_ Ramsay, hardly a hairsbreadth from his face, breathing as heavily as he was. “What do you want? M-money? I can—”

“No, none of that.” A hand carded through his hair. “We don’t want your money, sweetheart. The Flayed Lord has no use for it. What He wants…is your pain.”

Theon cried out as something cold and sharp darted along his chest, leaving a burning in its wake. It was so sudden, the pain didn’t register. As first. Only after he felt the wet seeping of blood dribbling down his stomach did he realize he’d been cut. Sliced.

His mind was still reeling, trying to understand what had happened—what _was happening_ —when the second slice came, crisscrossing the first. Theon could see it in his mind’s eye: a bloody bright red X across his torso.

“There, that’s a good start.” A hand pressed against his chest where the two cuts met, coaxing the blood out. Theon felt it, thick and warm on his chilled skin as it slithered out, pooling in his navel, in the hollows of his hips, before dripping down groin and his legs. “The blood of the damned flows!” Ramsay’s voice boomed, ringing off the high ceiling.

“The blood of the damned flows!” a dozen voices called back in unison.

“This blood we offer!” Ramsay’s voice took on a chanting cadence as he drew his hand back from the cut, though Theon still felt its phantom pressure. “This pain we offer!”

“This blood we offer! This pain we offer!”

“In the image of the Flayed Lord!”

“Amen!”

“What do you say, sweetheart?” This wasn’t yelled, but rather purred softly against Theon’s ear. “Will you offer your pain to our Flayed Lord? Will you beg as sweetly for Him as you did for me last night?”

“I don’t—”

The thin, sharp edge of the knife, still wet with his own blood, pressed against the cut where it crossed his left pectoral muscle. Theon sucked in his breath, gritted his teeth.

“You were screaming so nicely for me to hurt you. Won’t you offer your screams to the Flayed Lord?”

The knife started to slip in under the cut. Skin parted from muscle, and pain unlike anything Theon had felt before lanced through his flesh, drawing a scream from deep inside him. Up from his ribcage, stretched taut with his arms bound as they were. Nowhere to shrink back to, to get away, not even in his own thoughts. Just the burning, the cutting that demanded every inch of his being and attention.

It went on for…God, who knew how long? Forever, seemingly. Theon didn’t realize he’d blacked out until he felt a hand gently slapping his face, coaxing him back into consciousness.

“Now, now, I know you can do better than that.”

There was a quick pressure at the back of his head, and the blindfold loosened, slipped down his face and settled around his neck. Like a noose.

He blinked against the light. A hundred burning candles. A dozen figures in hooded cloaks, arranged in a circle around him. Stone walls and pillars that held aloft a high ceiling. It could be any old church, maybe even the one Mrs. Stark had always made them attend. Except there were no windows.

“Stay awake now,” the young man said. His voice sounded farther away, now that Theon could see him. But he was very close. With pale blue eyes boring into him. Colorless lips that parted in a wicked grin. “We’ve only just begun. There is _so much_ pain left to offer our Lord.”

A long, thin-bladed knife flashed in the young man’s hand, and Theon whimpered.

A memory floated to the surface. The bar. Watching the brown-haired woman laugh at Robb’s joke, watching her _touch_ him. Another drink that did nothing to numb the pain. Theon tracing circles on Ramsay’s wrist. _“You can do whatever you want to me. Make it good. Make it hurt. I don’t want to feel anything else.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are closed for the moment while I fill. I may be opening them up again after I'm done with this batch.


	2. Re-Initiating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sylvanWhispers says: 
> 
> _[This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6175846/chapters/14411227) in particular captured my imagination. The idea of Theon basically being the captive pet/plaything for an actual gang is so weirdly compelling to me. It's wonderful. It'd be great to see more of this concept someday._
> 
> I'm just going to assume y'all knew what you were getting into when you clicked on a story called "A Touch of Darkfic." There will not be individual warnings on each chapter, unless it's something especially egregious. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Theon hugged himself as he made his way down the alley.

He’d come to a decision, and not lightly.

But he’d reached his breaking point. He couldn’t go on like this…being Ramsay’s bitch. He was sore, inside and out, from being their plaything. It wasn’t at all what he’d signed up for when he’d joined Ramsay’s gang.

He’d known he was going to be on the bottom rung when he first joined. His brothers had told him as much. But they’d always made initiation sound more like a hazing ritual. A brutal hazing ritual, to be sure. Rodrik said he’d had to beat an old man outside his apartment building, and Maron said he’d had to break into an animal shelter and kill some cats. Theon had been prepared for something like _that_ , not…not being bent over a school desk and…

A gust of wind blew down the alley, tugging at Theon’s hoodie. He pulled it tighter around himself.

It had taken him three months to decide, but he was going to go the police. In the days following his…initiation in the classroom, he’d not gone to school at all, hoping to simply never see Ramsay again. Of course his parents had questions, but he couldn’t tell them. If they found out how he’d _allowed_ them to take turns using him…

He shuddered at the thought, even now, and rubbed at his arm. It still hurt where Damon had put his cigarette out on him earlier today. He was their ashtray. Their cock warmer. Their trained dog. Bringing them things and running their errands when he wasn’t on his hands and knees.

He’d successfully avoided going to school for nearly a week before Ramsay actually showed up at his house. Theon still didn’t know how he’d found his address. But there he was, posing as a concerned classmate. Theon would rather go with him than explain anything to his father, and so he’d allowed Ramsay to lead him to the gang’s hangout, a seedy shack on Ramsay’s father’s property.

They’d all been there—Damon, Skinner, Sour Alyn, Yellow Dick, all the Boys—eying him like meat. But they hadn’t touched him. Just sat, watching, as Ramsay sat him down.

“Are you having seconds thoughts, little Theon?”

He was too frightened to bristle at the name.

“Because there’s something you should know. Being in our gang is like being family. You can’t just _leave_ it.”

God, if he didn’t know that.

“Your initiating was rough, I understand.” Ramsay caressed his face, and it was all Theon could do to not vomit. “But you’re family now. And we’re going to take care of you. But you’ve got to take care of us too. Right?”

“I didn’t agree to this,” he mumbled.

“You did. You just didn’t realize it at the time.”

Theon still wasn’t sure what Ramsay had meant by that, but after three months of their “taking care” of him, he needed out. Family or not.

That’s where he was headed now. To the police station. To end this.

He walked with purpose, keeping to the shadows, every once in a while glancing over his shoulder to check that he wasn’t being followed. Ramsay always seemed to know where he was. He’d been extra careful leaving his house, taking the back alleys…

“Hey!”

He jumped at the voice and turned to see a man standing in an open doorway. A thin man with a goatee. Not one of Ramsay’s Boys. Theon let out a breath, though his heart was still pounding. He continued walking.

“Hey, you,” the man said again, and came out to block Theon’s path. “I’m _thpeaking_ to you.”

“I don’t have any money,” Theon mumbled and tried to pass.

The man moved to block him again, and this time pulled out a box cutter from the pocket of his coat. Theon took a startled step back. “Better watch your tongue, kid. You’re on Bloody Mummer turf.”

Theon reached into the pocket of his jeans and fumbled with his wallet clip. He tossed his pitiful wad of bills at the man. “There, that’s all I have,” he spat. “Just let me go. I am _not_ in the mood for this.”

The man’s lip curled. “I know you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re Balon Greyjoy’th boy, aren’t you? The one that didn’t bite it.” He grinned, a mouth full of crooked teeth. “My, it wath quite bold of you to come here. Don’t you know what we do to Krakens when we find them?”

Theon put up his hands and started to back away. “I don’t want any trouble.”

From behind, strong arms grabbed hold of him. He cried out in surprise, in fear, tried to twist away. But his arms were wrenched behind his back and he found himself unable to get free.

“Rorge hates Krakens, don’t you, Rorge?”

“Like to pull their legs off,” the man holding Theon said, his voice rumbling. “Tear off their slimy little tentacles and give what’s left to Biter.”

Out of the shadows appeared a third man, hulking in size, baring sharpened teeth at Theon. He didn’t say anything, but Theon could only imagine _that_ was Biter.

“Let me go.” He kicked against the man holding him. “I’m not a Kraken.”

“But you _are_ a Greyjoy.” The first man, the one with the lisp, came closer, brandishing his box cutter. His hand shot out and grabbed hold of Theon’s face. “You really do look a lot like your brother Rodrik. I alwayth _hated_ his face.” He brought the blade closer, let it dig into Theon’s cheek.

“I think the Krakens are getting a little too cocky,” Rorge said with a laugh. “Cut off his face and send it to them. Remind them the Bloody Mummers don’t fuck around.”

The tip of the blade began to cut into Theon’s flesh, and he closed his eyes. A droplet of blood slid down his cheek, like a tear.

“Oy!”

Everyone turned.

“That’s my property you’ve got there, Hoat,” Ramsay said, striding towards them at a leisurely pace. Damon and Skinner brought up the rear. “I’ll thank you to take your hands off of him.”

The man with the knife sneered. “Ramthay? Thince when have you joined with the Krakens?”

“You’ve got the wrong idea.” Ramsay pointed at Theon. “That’s my bitch. He belongs to _me_. Take your hands off him.” He cocked his head. “ _All_ of you.”

In an instant, Rorge released Theon by throwing him against the wall. Theon hit the bricks hard and slid down to his knees. He looked up to see Rorge stomping towards Ramsay, cracking his knuckles. “You want to tangle, Bolton?”

Ramsay made a flicking motion with his wrist, and a switchblade appeared out of the sleeve of his jacket. “Do _you_?”

Rorge froze and looked over his shoulder at the man with the lisp, who was apparently the leader. Hoat, Ramsay had called him. Hoat’s eye darted between Ramsay, Damon, and Skinner, as if sizing them up for a fight. In the end, he took a step back and shook his head. “Not worth it, boyth,” he growled.

“Wise man,” Ramsay said, and together, the Bloody Mummers headed for the door Hoat had originally appeared from. Biter was the last through the doorway, and he turned and _hissed_ at them before disappearing with the other two.

An ominous quiet fell over the alleyway.

Theon flinched at the sound of Damon’s footsteps coming towards him, but the brute only held out a hand. Head spinning and heart thumping, Theon hesitated. He still wasn’t sure what had just happened. Against his better judgment, he took Damon’s hand, and Damon hoisted him handily to his feet. The sudden rush of blood from standing made his head spin even more, and he stumbled and braced himself against Damon.

“Dumb fuck,” Skinner muttered.

The switchblade in Ramsay’s hand disappeared back up his sleeve and he strode forward. Theon cringed against Damon, knowing the other boy wouldn’t protect him from Ramsay’s wrath. In fact, of all the others, he seemed to enjoy Theon’s torment most.

Ramsay stopped just short of him and stood for a few seconds, eying him up and down. “Did they hurt you?”

Theon’s mouth struggled to work. “N-no.” He managed to shake his head.

Ramsay drew his mouth into a tight line of disapproval and reached out for Theon’s face. Theon flinched, but Ramsay just brushed his fingers along his cheek. His hand came back smeared with blood where Hoat’s blade had cut him. “He’s going to fucking pay for that.”

Slowly, Theon began to realize what had happened. Ramsay had…saved him?

“Why…why did you help me?” he squeaked. God, his voice sounded so small and pathetic. His legs were trembling, and if it weren’t for Damon holding him up, he was sure he’d have collapsed by now.

Ramsay grinned and stepped in closer, grabbing the back of Theon’s head and pulling him in for a savage kiss. His tongue plunged into Theon’s mouth, claiming him. Theon moaned helplessly against it, and again when Ramsay nipped harshly at his lip. “I told you, Greyjoy.” He pulled back just enough to lick at the cut on Theon’s face, his tongue hot and wet as it dragged against his flesh. “You belong to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requests are closed on darkfics, but still open over on my lightfics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23355481/chapters/55954600). Feel free to leave a prompt for a lightfic, even if you've already left one for a darkfic. I don't mind double-dipping.


	3. Sneaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> illusionaryatron asked for: 
> 
> _Maybe a role reversal? Theon and his Ironborn actually succeed at taking over Winterfell, and Ramsay is discovered for who he is? Obviously Ramsay'll have to pay the 'iron price' ;)_

Ramsay’s knees met with cold, hard stone as the men threw him to the ground.

“What’s this?” a voice asked, and the sheer disgusted confusion—like a man asking his dog why it had brought him a dead squirrel—prickled at his skin. Ramsay looked up at the voice. A scruffy-looking man with several days’ growth of stubble, dark circles under his eyes as if he had not slept in a long while. He wore the same armor as the other Ironborn, and really the only thing that set him apart from them was his blue cape. A man like that had no place sneering with such disgust at anyone.

“Found him in the woods,” one of the Ironborn said, delivering a half-hearted kick to Ramsay. “Sneaking.”

“Sneaking? Is that right?” The scruffy-looking man came closer and squatted down in front of Ramsay. There was madness behind those peculiarly blue eyes. Ramsay _knew_ madness. “Spying?”

“No, m’lord,” Ramsay lied, and averted his eyes in a show of submission. Nobles had been looking down on him since before he’d even been born. Underestimated him. Treated him like he was stupid. Sometimes it worked in his favor. “I’m just a farmhand.”

The man smiled, revealing a gap in his front teeth. “Expect me to believe that?”

“M’lord, it’s the truth. I was out gathering firewood and—”

A hand snagged in his hair, wrenching his neck to the side. Those madness-filled blue eyes were inches away from his own. “You think I don’t know who you really are? Who sent you?”

Ramsay struggled, but it was difficult with his hands bound behind his back. “Please, m’lord, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear, I’m just a simple farmhand.”

“Robb Stark sent you.” The man shook Ramsay roughly. “He sent you to spy on me, to report on my movements. He thinks he can sniff out my weak points and take Winterfell from me. It won’t work.” He pushed Ramsay to the floor, and Ramsay’s cheek landed against the stone. “Theon Greyjoy is Prince of Winterfell now. And he intends to hold it.”

Ramsay lay there for a moment, stunned.

“Winterfell is mine, and all its inhabitants have sworn loyalty to me and to my father,” Theon Greyjoy, Prince of Winterfell, went on, pacing back and forth. All Ramsay saw of him were his fine boots, passing in front of his eyes. “I _would_ tell you to tell _him_ that, but I have a better way of dealing with traitors and _sneaks_.”

“Please, m’lord—”

“Get me my sword!” the Prince of Winterfell hollered. “We’ll stick his head on a pike with the others. Show them what _sneaking_ gets them.”

“No, m’lord, please!” Ramsay struggled up to a sitting position. “I’m just a simple farmhand, but I’ve come to serve you!”

The pacing stopped and Greyjoy squatted down again. “Oh?” He did not sound convinced. Ramsay would have to make this good.

“I just…I’ve heard so much about Prince Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, about how he ousted the Starks from their castle—a feat no man has accomplished in a thousand years, m’lord—and I wanted to see such a great leader for myself.” He shifted his knees underneath him and made his eyes as wide and disarming as possible. “The smallfolk are grateful to you, m’lord.”

Greyjoy cocked his head. “Is that so?”

“It is, m’lord. We all know you gave those Starks what they deserved. We’re tired of living under their rule. Winter is coming, m’lord, and we need a strong leader, a true leader. In truth…in truth I would very much like to serve you, as my true leader…if you’ll have me, m’lord.”

Greyjoy’s eyes narrowed, and Ramsay could tell he was winning the man over. Nobles were all the same. “What use do I have for a ‘simple farmhand’?”

“Well, I…I am a good hunter, m’lord.”

Greyjoy sneered, and Ramsay forced down the anger that rose up in his throat. “I’m more than able to hunt for myself, Lord Farmhand. And you could not be that light of foot if my men caught you so easily.” His eyes flicked up to his men, who were still standing guard. Ramsay could feel their looming shapes behind him. “We have enough shit shovelers in the stables, don’t we?”

“Plenty,” one of the men replied.

Greyjoy spread his arms wide. “Then I’m afraid we don’t have much use for you after all.” He nodded to his men. “Fetch me my sword.”

“N-no.” Ramsay lurched forward. “I can…I have other uses!”

The Ironborn soldiers rushed forward to grab him, but Greyjoy held up his hand to stay them. He gave Ramsay a curious look, eying him up and down, as if his mind was already going to the next logical step. “Yes?”

“I can…” Ramsay lowered his voice. “I can _service_ you, m’lord.”

“Service me…how?” He grinned. He knew exactly what Ramsay meant but wanted him to say it out loud.

“I can suck your cock,” Ramsay said without hesitating. “And I’m good with my hands. The other boy on the farm says so.” He averted his eyes again, feigning shyness. “And I’ve never…well, with a man…but if it was to be a man like you, m’lord…” He trailed off, making a show of biting his lip.

Greyjoy was silent for a long moment, contemplative.

Ramsay’s heart pounded against his ribs.

Finally, Greyjoy stood. “Leave us,” he said to the other men.

To their credit, they didn’t question it, simply filed out of the room and closed the door behind them. Then he was alone with this madman, who was fumbling with the strings of his breeches.

“Very well,” he said as he worked. His fingers were slim and nimble. “If you are as good as you say, I will consider leaving your head on its shoulders.” He lowered his breeches and allowed his cock to spring out, already halfway to hard. Ramsay wondered if his words had truly excited the pompous little lord that much.

Ramsay inched forward on his knees, until the lord’s cock was at eye level. Revulsion filled him—the humiliation of being caught while scoping the castle for Ironborn movements, of being bound and thrown on his knees, made to serve such an arrogant cunt. It filled his belly full of bile. But he swallowed it down and opened his mouth.

“Don’t even think about trying to take my cock off with your teeth,” Greyjoy warned, “or you’ll _wish_ for a simple beheading.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

As he started to lean in, a hand snarled in his hair. The prick passed through his lips and rammed down his throat in a sudden, violent movement, and Ramsay caught himself sputtering. He tried to pull away, but the hand held firm.

“I thought you said you were good at this,” Greyjoy’s voice taunted.

Ramsay forced himself to relax. Against every instinct to fight, he forced himself to relax. _Make it good_ , he told himself. _Your own head depends on this_. Always at the mercy of these highborn twats. There was no aspect of his life they didn’t control. He hated them. All of them.

He wrapped his lips around Greyjoy’s cock and started bobbing his head, as best he could with the hand in his hair. Above him, Greyjoy groaned and loosened his hold, allowed Ramsay more movement.

Ramsay wanted to bite it off. He wanted to pummel Greyjoy’s face and body until it was littered with purple bruises, until the man was begging him for mercy. He wanted to break out every tooth in that stupid smile. But instead he kept working, bobbing up and down on his noble prick, using his lips and tongue to draw out pleasured cries from the Prince of Winterfell.

Ramsay had been treated like shit under their shoes since before he was born, and if he’d learned it anything, it was patience.

_Soon, Lord Greyjoy. Soon._


	4. Improvising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leviosa95 said: 
> 
> _Could you do one with I guess improvised sex toys? Ramsay getting curious and using wine bottles, knife handles, etc........._
> 
> Guys, this might legitimately be the dirtiest thing I've ever written.

“My, your hole is especially hungry today, isn’t it?”

Reek squeaked as Ramsay ran his finger around the rim of his hole, swollen and red from where Ramsay had just finished fucking him over Roose’s desk. The puckered flesh fluttered against his fingertip. It really was like a second mouth, wet and gaping and hungry for more.

“I’ll guess you’ll need more than just my cock today.”

Reek gripped the edges of the desk until his already-white knuckles turned practically translucent against his bones, but he didn’t protest. He wouldn’t dare. Ramsay rubbed the shallow swell of his ass affectionately. _Good boy_.

His father’s desk. There had to be something here he could use. Papers had been scattered everywhere when he’d swiped them aside to make space for Reek. Roose’s quill, resting in its ink stand. The sharpened nib had potential, but though he enjoyed the idea of sullying the beautiful black swan feather his father took such pride in, he knew it would be too flimsy to fuck Reek with. Something else then…

Ah, the wax seal stamp. Ramsay reached over and took it from its spot, hefting its weight in his hand. The wooden handle was quite smooth, about the size and shape of an awl. And the stamp at the end, about the size of a coin, with the sigil of the flayed man embossed on its surface. Ramsay grinned at the thought that whenever his father sealed a letter from now on, he’d be using something that had been up Reek’s ass.

Reek whined as the cold metal pushed against his entrance. The head of the stamp was thicker than Ramsay’s cock, and even gaping, Reek’s ass resisted the intrusion. He let out a soft _unf_ as it finally popped through the ring of muscle, and the wooden handle slid in easily after that.

“How is that, Reek? Do you like my family’s sigil inside you?”

Reek didn’t say anything, but Ramsay knew him too well, knew every shudder and spasm of the muscles under his skin. The way his thighs tightened when he brushed _that_ spot inside him, the way his breathing hitched as pain and pleasure mixed. His poor, dumb little creature didn’t know how to handle it.

Ramsay kept thrusting with the stamp, pushing it in as far as the handle would allow, which was admittedly not that far. Still, the strained little noises he drew from his pet were immensely satisfying. The unnatural shape of the stamp’s head had to be wreaking all manner of havoc on his already-abused insides.

There was an especially long, low keening as Ramsay started to tug it out. It didn’t want to come easily, and Ramsay had to wiggle the handle around before the head popped out with a sucking sound, momentarily exposing Reek’s purple-red insides.

Reek lay slumped on the desk, panting, as Ramsay wiped the blood and seed and shit from the stamp using the tattered hem of his pet’s shirt. Then he set it back where he’d found it, almost giddy at the thought of Roose sending his next letter.

He felt his cock stirring again. Not just Reek laying spread out on the desk, with his ass exposed for any further abuse, but the mess they’d made. But destroying the order his father had no doubt worked so hard to instill. Sullying it. Violating it.

Ramsay ran his hands up and down Reek’s thighs. “It looks like you’re still hungry to be filled, Reek.”

Reek flinched and something like a miserable moan escaped his throat.

“What was that?” Ramsay leaned his weight in over the bony body. “I’m afraid you need to _speak up_ , Reek.”

“Y-yes, m’lord.” Reek sounded like he was choking on sand. “Whatever you want to give me.”

 _Good boy_.

Ramsay stroked his hair. “Wait right there, then. I’ll get something else to fill your hungry hole.”

He glanced around the room. Roose had always been a man of sparse taste. He kept his quarters neat and uncluttered. There was the desk, of course, and an armoire. A bed where he fucked his fat wife. A chest of drawers his fat wife had brought with her from the Twins. Leaving Reek bent over the desk, Ramsay headed for the chest, kept at the end up the bed. Pulled back the furs draped over it and lifted the lid—unlocked. And what should he find resting on a pile of clothes and blankets but an array of perfume bottles.

Reek—the Reek before, that was—had once drunk perfume in an attempt to cure himself of his stink. Perhaps it would be fitting for his new Reek, then.

He ran his hands along the glass bottles, trying to decide which would be best. There was a short, squat one that looked like a garlic bulb, which might be interesting but it didn’t really have a handle to speak of. There was an urn-shaped one with a particularly long stem that intrigued him. But in the end, he chose the teardrop-shaped one, because the stopper had a wide bulb at the end. It fit handily into his palm as he brought it back to the desk.

Reek _jumped_ as Ramsay pressed the bulb into his hole, watching the way it was swallowed up by reddened flesh. “Wh-what…?”

“Shh,” Ramsay cooed, using his free hand to brush at Reek’s hair. “Your master’s going to take good care of you.” And he pushed the stopper of the bottle the rest of the way in.

Reek gasped. He would have no idea what was inside him. Ramsay let him savor the uncertainty for a second before continuing.

The bottle flared out after the stopper, stretching Reek’s hole wide and wider as it went. Ramsay ran his fingers along Reek’s back, feeling the way the muscles tensed with every stretching inch, unsure how far it would go, how wide it would stretch.

Ramsay chuckled. Truly, it wasn’t that long or wide, compared to his cock, not that Reek would have any way of knowing that. Reek’s nails dug into the wood of the desk, his chest rose and fell as his breathing became more rapid, perhaps thinking he was in danger of being stretched to ripping… He would cry tears of gratitude for the certainty and familiarity of Ramsay’s cock again.

Ramsay felt a twinge of disappointment as the widest part of the bottle passed, the slight loosening of Reek’s muscles as he realized the object inside of him was tapering off. But with that, at least he could start fucking his pet in earnest. He pulled the bottle all the way out, until only the bulb was left in, and then slammed in back as far as he could get it. Reek’s hips slapped against the desk, and the entire thing moved under the both of them.

“Is that good, Reek?”

“Y-yes, m’lo-oh-rd,” Reek responded, his voice jumping when Ramsay did it again—all the way out and all the way in.

Ramsay’s thrusts became faster but shallower as he settled into a rhythm. In, out. In, out. Again. Again. Again.

The beauty of using an object was that he could go for as long as he wanted to keep drawing those sounds out of Reek. At least until he was too hard to ignore, at which point he pulled the bottle out and flung it to the floor. The glass shattered, and the pungent scent of perfume filled the air. Ramsay hoped it had been expensive.

“Are you still hungry, Reek? Shall I find something else to fill you with?”

“N-no!” Reek cried, lurching against the desk.

“No?” Ramsay feigned surprise.

“I—I mean…I want _you_ , m’lord.”

“Me?”

Reek’s chin smacked against the wood as he nodded furiously. “Only you, m’lord. You…your cock.”

“My cock?”

“Yes. _Please_.”

“Well, since you beg so sweetly…” Ramsay readjusted his breeches, freeing his cock, before grabbing hold of Reek’s hips and lining himself up. The relieved sob that wracked Reek’s body was adorable. Ramsay stood there, poised to thrust in, admiring his creature. The wreck he had made.

“P-please, m’lord,” Reek whimpered. “It’s just your cock, isn’t it?”

“Shh, hush now.” Ramsay paused to card his hands through Reek’s hair again, watching the shiver that ran all the way down the knobs of his back. “You’ve been a good sport, Reek, but I know the only thing that really fills you up is me.”

He thrust in.


	5. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TheNymphNagisa asked for: 
> 
> _Ramsay being the leader of a gang Theon is investigating on, but Ramsay caught and kidnaps him._
> 
> My second gang!AU fill, so for this one I went with a more mafia/drug cartel sort of gang.

“Well, hello, Mr. Officer.”

Theon knew he was in trouble, and several things made this obvious. One, he was tied to a chair. Two, he had a bag over his head. Three, the last thing he remembered was tailing a suspected— _all but confirmed_ —member of the Bastard Boys, one Damon Dance-for-Me, and then being choked out from behind until he woke up here. Tied to a chair with a bag over his head.

He didn’t know where “here” was, exactly. Probably a warehouse down by the wharf, suspected Boys’ hangout—now _all but confirmed_. It was big and empty, judging by the way the footsteps circling around him echoed off the walls.

“Damon tells me you’ve been following him for a while,” the voice that went with those echoing footsteps said. Suddenly, hands clapped down on his shoulders, and Theon jerked in surprise. “If you’d wanted to meet us face-to-face, all you had to do was ask.”

The bag was pulled from his head, and harsh light flooded his vision. He blinked against it. He’d been right about the warehouse. Not completely empty, though. There were stacked crates here and there. And from his investigations, Theon was pretty sure what was in them.

“Officer…Greyjoy, was it?” the voice asked, and the hands began kneading at his shoulder.

“Detective,” Theon corrected, squirming under the touch.

“Oooh, _detective_. How _official_ -sounding.” The hands moved up his neck and into his hair, ruffling.

“Don’t touch me!” Theon hissed. His wrists were tied to the arms of the chair and he couldn’t flinch away too much. “You’re unlawfully imprisoning a police officer. Things will go much worse for you if you don’t release me right now!”

The voice made a low humming noise, as if actually considering that. “Now, that’s just rude, _detective_.” The hands vanished from his hair, and the presence behind him shifted, coming around the side of the chair.

Theon recognized the man from the files he’d been given during debriefing, but he was surprised by just how _young_ Ramsay Bolton was. He’d taken over the family business after the untimely deaths of his father and brother— _all but confirmed_ to have been orchestrated by Ramsay Bolton himself—and had expanded his ring during his first year of operation. He had a presence to him, something not entirely conveyed in the pictures. A sort of cold self-assuredness that demanded you pay attention. Theon couldn’t take his eyes off him.

Bolton spread his arms wide, indicating the warehouse. “I invite you into my space, arrange a one-on-one meeting, take time out of my busy schedule to come meet with you…and this is how you’re going to act?” He shook his head like a disappointed father, something Theon knew so well he instinctively cringed. “Maybe we should take this opportunity to teach your some manners, Detective Greyjoy.”

Theon set his jaw. If he couldn’t look away, at least he could appear un-intimidated. “The Winterfell Police Department will not look kindly on you doing this to one of their officers.”

Bolton’s lips twisted into a cruel kind of sneer. “You think they know you’re missing, let alone care?”

“Of course they _care_!” Theon shot back. “I’m a licensed officer of the law.”

“I know.” Bolton reached into the pocket of his tight, black pants and pulled out Theon’s badge, flipping it open. “Officer Theon Greyjoy. I always knew the WFPD was hungry for new recruits, but I didn’t realize their standards had fallen so _low_.”

“I graduated the academy with honors,” Theon said. “I’ve been an exemplary member of the force!”

Bolton lifted his leg and slammed his boot into Theon’s stomach, driving the wind out of him with an _oof_. The chair wobbled but did not topple. “You know, a simple Google search is all I need to tell me how full of shit you are, right? Your write-ups are a matter of public record. Disorderly conduct. Driving under the influence. Unnecessary use of force.” He grinned as he leaned in, pressing harder with his boot. “You’re a regular pain in the ass for the PR department, aren’t you?”

“I’m still an officer of the law,” Theon said, with less conviction in his voice this time.

“A detective even!” Bolton removed his boot, and Theon took in a deep breath. “That must make you a very important person, Detective Greyjoy. Very important. I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure there are many people—very important people—wondering where you are, worrying about you.”

“I know the commissioner personally. Once my partner reports me missing—”

“How long do you suppose that will take?” Bolton scratched at his chin. “I mean, for them to realize you’re _missing_ -missing, and not just sleeping off another night of drinking?”

“My partner knows where I am.” Robb had warned him not to do anything on his own, that they worked in teams for a reason. And Theon…Theon had said he wouldn’t. Lied, would be more accurate. But…but surely Robb would suspect something when he didn’t show up for work or answer his phone. Surely Robb wouldn’t chalk it up to Theon going on a binge again. Surely…

“Hmm, I can see you’re not so sure.” Bolton grabbed Theon’s hair and yanked his head back, bending it at an awkward angle against the chair. “I’ll help you out. I’ll let the WFPD know where you are.” He turned his head and barked, “Damon!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Theon saw Damon Dance-for-Me materialize out of the shadows. With his head pinned against the chair, he couldn’t quite make out what the young man was holding in his hands. Robb had been right. He shouldn’t have been following a suspect on his own. He should have called for backup. He should have…

“You have pretty hands,” Bolton said, drawing Theon’s eyes back to him. “Womanish.” Fingers brushed against Theon’s left hand. “No ring. Not married?”

Theon gritted his teeth.

“Girlfriend?” Bolton’s smile widened. “Boyfriend?”

Theon clenched his hand into a fist, but Bolton began prying it open, pulling his fingers apart and forcing the palm flat against the arm of the chair. Damon drew nearer, and Theon’s heart thundered between his ears as he finally caught sight of what was in the other man’s hands—a pair of bolt cutters.

“Ring finger,” Bolton said to Damon, who unfolded the bolt cutters and came around to the left side of the chair.

Theon bucked against his restraints. “What? You’re not—you can’t—” He tried to vain to draw his fingers back into a fist, but Bolton held firm, and soon he felt the cold, flat edges of the bolt cutters hugging against his left ring finger, just below the second knuckle. “Please! Please don’t!”

“Please do, Damon.”

The bolt cutter began to squeeze in, pressing against soft flesh and then bone. In his blind panic, Theon wasn’t aware of the pain so much as the pressure, building and building. Not just in his finger, but in his skull, in his eardrums, in his teeth, so that he had to clench his jaw. His legs and wrists tugged at their bonds, the wood of the chair’s arms and legs buckling just as the bone on his finger buckled against the pressure. Something had to give. Something had to—

There was a snap, a pop, and then a rush of pain. Hot, but still somehow distant. Like it was happening to someone else. He cried out, because it was the only thing he could _do_.

The hand holding his head back released him, and he slumped forward like a ragdoll. His vision was dizzy, but his eyes managed to find his left hand. And even seeing that—the stump where his ring finger had been, the blood pooling on his hand and the arm of the chair and dripping down onto his legs—felt like he was watching it happen to someone else.

Bolton bent down and picked up something that Theon’s detached brain at first thought was a worm—a fat, pale worm covered in red slime—and handed it to Damon. “Send that to WFPD. Put it in a nice box.”

The echoing of retreating footsteps thundered unbearably loudly in Theon’s ears. Or maybe that was his heartbeat. He wasn’t sure. He thought he was probably in shock.

“You’re not falling asleep on me, now, are you, detective?”

Theon’s eyes swam around, trying to find the source of the voice.

“It seems I’ve been remiss in my duties as a host if I’ve bored you so much.”

Theon’s head whipped to the side as Bolton’s palm caught him on the cheek. Pain blossomed across his face. A sharp, solid kind of pain his brain could comprehend. He vision slowly came back into focus.

“You cut my fucking finger off!”

“Fast one, aren’t you?”

“You fucking—” Theon jerked against his bonds again. “I’ll see you locked up for the rest of your fucking life. You’ve fucked with the wrong person. Don’t you know who I am? My partner is the commissioner’s son! He’ll rain unholy brimstone on your ass!”

Bolton watched him struggle with a sort of lopsided grin on his face, eyes half-lidded. “Oh, I didn’t realize we had the commissioner’s son’s partner here.” His voice dripping with sarcasm. “What a very important person you are indeed, Detective Greyjoy.”

“Fucking bastard!”

In a flash, there was a pistol in Theon’s face.

In his time on the force, Theon had had a gun drawn on him more than. You trained for it, to be able to act instead of freezing up, but no amount of training could entirely get rid of that split-second of animal-like fear, so deep your conscious mind didn’t recognize it right away.

He stared at the end of the pistol, its black barrel aimed between his eyes. At this distance…it didn’t bear thinking about.

“Whoa, whoa…” He took a breath and found that his limbs were shaking. A result of fear and shock. “Let’s not—there’s no need for that. You don’t want to kill a police officer. It won’t go well for you.”

“You really are an arrogant piece of shit, aren’t you?” Bolton scoffed. “Open your mouth.”

“I…what?”

The gun clicked as Bolton cocked it. “Open your fucking mouth!”

A true fear and helplessness gripped Theon’s chest. It was starting to set in. Even _if_ Robb knew where he was, he wouldn’t get here in time. No one was coming to save him. Not in the amount of time it would take Bolton to pull the trigger.

He opened his mouth.

“Wider.”

He forced his tense jaw to relax, at the same time understanding of what Bolton wanted settled in.

Bolton shoved the barrel of the pistol into Theon’s mouth, almost to the back of his throat, until he choked. His tongue fought against the intrusion, and his throat spasmed. The taste of acrid metal flooded his mouth.

“Let’s see how well you use your mouth,” Bolton said. “If I like what I see, maybe I won’t paint the floor with your brains.”

Theon tried to swallow but found he couldn’t with the metal gagging him.

Bolton drew the gun back, until it clicked against the back of Theon’s front teeth. “You understand what I’m saying?”

Theon gave a nod, and the top of the barrel hit against the roof of his mouth at the movement.

Bolton grinned. “Alright, then.” He forced the gun back in.

Theon wasn’t quite prepared and sputtered.

“Is that the best you can do?”

Theon shook his head, as best he could, and wrapped his lips around the barrel. Bolton grinned and began moving the pistol in rhythmic motions, in and out. Theon forced his throat to relax with every inward push, trying to keep his mind blank, to not think about Bolton’s finger on the trigger, about how even a mistaken jerk could set the thing off.

He squeezed his eyes closed, and tears forced their way out, dribbling down his cheeks and chin. _Please, I don’t want to die. Not here, not like this._

After what felt like an eternity, and after his throat had been fucked raw, Bolton drew back. In a panic, Theon wrapped his teeth and lips around the barrel, trying to keep it in, trying to keep his captor happy.

Bolton yanked it free with a laugh. “I pegged you for a cocksucker. You didn’t disappoint.”

Theon opened his eyes to find Bolton putting the gun back into his back pocket. Not a good place to store your pistol, especially for a quick draw, especially for safety reasons, but Bolton didn’t seem to be a man particularly concerned with safety. He was grinning that smile, and all Theon could feel was a wash of relief, perhaps a bit of pride that he’d pleased the man enough to convince him to spare his life.

Bolton knelt down so they could be on eye level, so Theon didn’t have to crane his neck to look up at him. He ran a gentle hand through Theon’s hair. “See, I knew we could drill some manners into you, Detective Greyjoy. It just takes a bit of a heavy hand.”


	6. Needing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> morgelyn-whoregelyn said: 
> 
> _I would love a really grubby modern au where Theon is a smackhead and Ramsay is his dealer._
> 
> I hope it's grubby enough for you.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite junkie.” Ramsay opened the door and stepped back. “Come in.”

Greyjoy didn’t say anything as he came in, just scratched at the crook of his arm and made his way straight to the couch. He was jittering like crazy, like every particle in his body was vibrating out of sync with reality. And only Ramsay had what he needed to start vibrating on the right level again.

He flopped himself onto the couch, so faded and caked with grime you couldn’t even tell what the original colors were, just that it had once had a plaid pattern. “Shoes off the sofa,” Ramsay chided, and reveled in the way Greyjoy meekly complied. “Wouldn’t want to get the furniture dirty, now, would we?”

“No,” Greyjoy agreed as a bedbug scuttled out from between the cushions. He bent down to untie his shoes. He was so jittery, even that was difficult, and his hands fumbled with the ties.

With a frustrated sigh, exaggerated for effect, Ramsay came over and swatted Greyjoy’s hands away from his shoes. “Let me do that, you little idiot.” He knelt down and began undoing the laces, which were knotted beyond all comprehension. “What’s the matter? You never learn to tie your fucking shoes? Has Mommy been putting them on and taking them off for you all this time?” He yanked the first shoe off without even properly untying it. Greyjoy’s toes poked out of the holes in his dingy socks. “Does she also lay your clothes out for you, or do you need her to actually dress you too?”

There had been a time when Greyjoy would have defended himself, but now he was just silent. He whimpered when Ramsay pulled the second shoe off and tossed it across the room. “Ramsay, please.”

“Please what? You need a bedtime story now?”

Greyjoy just looked up at him with those big eyes, bloodshot, teary.

“No,” Ramsay relented, patting Greyjoy’s head as he stood. “I know what you need, puppy.”

Greyjoy lay out on the couch again, and Ramsay went to the kitchen. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes and stagnant water. Beer cans and bottles littered the floor, and semi-empty takeout boxes made cozy hideouts for cockroaches. Roose would have an absolute fit to see what Ramsay’s Boys had done to his condo, but what Roose didn’t know—or didn’t ask about—wouldn’t hurt him.

Out in the living room, the springs of the couch creaked as Greyjoy fidgeted uncomfortably, but Ramsay took his time preparing the needle, drawing the process out. By the time he came back to the living room, Greyjoy was tossing and turning like an insomniac. And scratching at his arms like he was trying to tear his skin off.

“Hey, calm down.” Ramsay smacked his hands away again. “I’ve got what you need right here, puppy.”

Greyjoy looked up at him reverently. Those big eyes. That grateful smile. He began to roll up his sleeve.

Ramsay knew, even before he saw, that it would be no good. His arms had more track marks than flesh, let alone actual veins. Ramsay put a hand on Greyjoy’s forehead and pushed him back into a reclining position on the couch. Greyjoy gave him a questioning look. “You’ve collapsed all the veins in your arms, Greyjoy.” Ramsay reached for the zipper of his jeans. “We’ll need to put it in somewhere else.”

“Oh.” Greyjoy tensed like he was about to argue, but in the end didn’t. Just lay there, looking up at the ceiling, as Ramsay worked his pants down, slipping them off one leg at a time. What he was left with was a young man in a zip-up hoodie and naked from the waist down save for his dirty briefs and socks. He did squirm a bit when Ramsay settled himself on the couch and lifted one of his legs.

“You’ve got a good vein here.” Ramsay ran a finger along the vein on the inside of Greyjoy’s thigh, watching his puppy shudder at the touch.

Greyjoy nodded in understanding, and Ramsay positioned himself between Greyjoy’s legs. With Greyjoy’s left knee flung over his shoulder, he pressed the tip of the needle against the vein and pushed until the skin gave. Then he depressed the plunger, until all of the syringe’s contents were drained. Then he sat back on his haunches and watched the heroin kick in.

It didn’t take long at all. Two minutes, maybe three. Greyjoy’s big eyes became unfocused. His eyelids drooped. His body stopped twitching and relaxed into the cushions. He was floating.

“Is that good, puppy?”

Greyjoy nodded. An awkward, uncoordinated nod.

Ramsay crawled forward, draping his body over Greyjoy’s. He cupped his puppy’s face. “No more pain?”

“No,” Greyjoy slurred. He reached out for Ramsay, but his movements were clumsy and he ended up poking him in the eye.

The act of affection was endearing, but also annoying, so Ramsay grabbed his hand and forced it down at his side. “Just relax now, puppy. Everything’s good.”

Greyjoy nodded in agreement.

“I’ll take care of you.”

“…always take care of me.”

“Of course I do, puppy.” Ramsay reached between their bodies and began to tug at Greyjoy’s briefs. If Greyjoy knew what was happening, he didn’t resist at all. “I take care of all my clients. But you know you’re my favorite.”

His eyes lit up. Not with anything resembling sobriety, but with the hope of a child or an actual puppy receiving praise for some mundane task. “I am?”

“Of course.” Ramsay pulled the briefs down, and withdrew his hand to wet his fingers in his mouth. He could have had Greyjoy do it, but he wasn’t in the mood for have the junkie slobbering all over him. “You’re perfect.”

“I’m perfect?”

“Yes.” Ramsay slid his hand awkwardly between the couch cushion and Greyjoy’s ass, until he found the puckered little hole he was looking for. His wet fingers pressed in, and although Greyjoy fidgeted a bit, he still didn’t protest. “My perfect little puppy.” While his one hand worked at Greyjoy’s hole, his other hand brushed Greyjoy’s face, enjoying the way he nuzzled into the touch. “You’re very good to me.”

“Mmm…want to be.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to be good for you, Ramsay.”

Ramsay grinned. “I know.” He withdrew his fingers and sat back, slapping Greyjoy’s flank. “Be good for me now, puppy, and turn over.”

Greyjoy did, awkwardly but without question, laying himself out on his stomach and pillowing his head with his arms. You didn’t really appreciate it, seeing him in his baggy clothes, but he was very thin. His skin hugged his skeleton tight, revealing each and every rib where his hoodie had ridden up his back. His hips didn’t offer much to grip for fucking either, but that didn’t concern Ramsay. Greyjoy’s whole body—his whole being, everything about him—was something to grip for fucking.

“Tell me how good you want to be for me,” Ramsay said and began undoing his own pants, shimmying them down just enough to free his aching cock.

“Very,” Greyjoy agreed. “Very good.”

“Who’s my favorite?”

“Is it me?” Greyjoy lifted his head, like he wasn’t quite sure.

Ramsay pushed his head back down, forced his face into the pillow. “It is.” One hand holding Greyjoy down, he used the other to line himself and started to push in. Greyjoy made a little noise of surprise, but his body was so loose, Ramsay had little trouble sliding in. Greyjoy’s body welcomed in, offering no resistance. “So good,” Ramsay groaned. “So good to me.” When he was fully seated, he let his weight press down, feeling the bony body beneath him, the slow rise and fall of Greyjoy’s breathing against his chest.

Sometimes, Ramsay thought, the breathing was the only thing letting him know he wasn’t fucking a corpse. He’d fuck Greyjoy later, when the dose was wearing off, when the jittering returned and Greyjoy would once again be desperate. But this had its own charm. A body, pliant in every conceivable way, as eager to please as it was to get the poison into its veins again.

Ramsay smiled fondly and pressed an impromptu kiss to Greyjoy’s temple. “You’re my favorite puppy.”


	7. Acting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> charli33's prompt:
> 
> _Theon meets a stranger who looks exactly like Ramsay in some bar in Westeros and he starts to wonder if he is delusional or that man really exists because he knows Ramsay is dead... some sexual tension between them would be nice._

Ramsay winked at him, which was impossible, because Ramsay was dead.

Theon had seen his body drop. The cop firing a third, and probably unnecessary, bullet into his head, then turning her gun on Theon and ordering him to “put his hands in the air.” Until she realized he couldn’t with a cursed, “Fuck.”

So, yes, Ramsay was well and truly dead. Theon and the other victims had been rescued from the basement over a year ago, and Ramsay…Ramsay’s remains had been either incinerated or buried in a pinewood box. Theon didn’t know. Nobody had bothered to tell him and he hadn’t bothered to find out.

But maybe not. Because here was Ramsay Bolton now, smiling at him from across the bar. Sure, he was neat and clean-shaven, his hair longer than Theon remembered it, tied up in a sort of man bun. Ramsay would not have been caught dead with a man bun. But then again, apparently he had been.

Caught dead, that was.

Because those eyes. There was no mistaking them. That peculiar pale shade of blue. They haunted Theon’s nightmares.

Theon was startled when a frosted glass was pushed in front of him. He tore his eyes away from the dead man to the bartender, who then crooked his head at the dead man. “Compliments from the gentleman at the end of the bar.”

Theon’s stomach sank and his heart jumped up into his throat. Or maybe it was the other way around. Well, something went up and something went down, and he felt like he was going to vomit all over the bar. He glanced over. The dead man was watching him, to see what he would do.

He should get up and leave. Just…leave. He could do that.

But his hand reached for the glass, pulled it towards him. That was the invite the dead man needed. He stood and made his way towards Theon. He _walked_ like Ramsay, confident for a man of his height, head up and shoulders swinging.

Theon’s heart thundered over the din of the live music. He barely heard the man’s perfunctory, “This seat taken?” but nodded anyway, and the man took the bar seat next to him. “Come here often?”

What a terrible pickup line.

“I suppose it is,” the man laughed, and Theon’s face heated up as he realized he’d said that out loud. Up close, he noticed some imperfections—his nose was narrower than Ramsay’s, his eyebrows not as thick, his teeth a little straighter. Nothing that couldn’t be explained with plastic surgery, maybe to throw off the cops? But if so, he surely hadn’t gone far enough, because he still _looked_ like Ramsay, down to his toothy smile and the very dimples in his cheeks. The way his hands moved as he gestured between them. “I just noticed you looking at me and I thought maybe there was some chemistry going on between us.” His too-thin eyebrows knitted together. “You know, you have a very familiar face. Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I don’t know.” Theon took a careful sip of the beer. “Do you?”

The man narrowed his eyes. He genuinely seemed to be thinking, but Ramsay had always been a good actor. Even up to the last day, when the cops had raided the house, Theon had never been able to tell if he was telling the truth or playing some cruel joke.

“I know I’ve seen you somewhere…ah!” He snapped his fingers. “You’ve been in movies, haven’t you?”

Theon smiled sardonically. “Nothing _you_ would have seen.”

“Oh?” The man seemed to get the insinuation. But certainly not all of it. Unless, perhaps he had seen Ramsay’s videos. Theon knew some of them had been posted online, though he tried not to think about it. If this guy was the type of man who watched _that_ sort of stuff…

If this guy wasn’t actually Ramsay himself…

“Amateur stuff, mostly,” Theon went on, feeling him out. “My stage name was Reek.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Well that’s…unique. Must not be you I’m thinking of. I’d definitely remember a name like that.” He sidled up closer. “Do you mind me asking what your, ah, real name is?”

“You’re not disgusted?” Theon raised one eyebrow. “Knowing I did stuff like that?”

The man shrugged. “Naw. Porn stars aren’t even a blip on my radar when it comes to the unsavory characters I’ve had to deal with in my life.” He leaned his head on his fist. “As long as you enjoyed the work and were treated fairly by your employers, I don’t see an issue.”

Theon gave him a tight-lipped grin. If he really was Ramsay, masquerading as some soft-hearted hipster, that last comment would be in character for how deeply it cut.

“So, can I have your real name?”

“Theon.” He looked straight at the man, doing his best to meet those pale blue eyes head-on. “Theon Greyjoy.”

The man looked back, seemingly unaware of Theon’s challenge. “Has anyone told you you’re kind of intense?”

“No.”

“I mean, I like it. It suits you. The whole…dark, broody thing you have going on.”

“Dark and broody?” Theon scoffed, and perhaps it came out a little more lighthearted than he’d intended. _I’m turning into Jon Snow now, I guess. Only took being locked in a psychopath’s basement for two months._

“Yeah, it’s hot.”

“Hot?” Theon repeated again.

“I’d like to get to know you better.” The man suddenly pulled back. “But, you know, if you want me to fuck off, that’s all you’ve got to say.”

Theon ran his finger over the lip of the glass, thinking. If this man was really Ramsay, there was no way he’d fuck off. If he’d somehow survived, if he’d somehow dug his way out of the grave just to come find him again, there was no way he was letting Theon go. The thought filled him with dread but also a cold kind of acceptance. It wasn’t like he’d truly been able to escape Ramsay even when he believed he was dead.

“You never told me _your_ name,” he said at last, pinning the man with another “intense” look.

“Oh, of course.” The man’s mouth split into a toothy grin. “I’m Domeric.”

“Domeric?”

“Domeric Bolton. Friends call me Dom for short.”

Theon snorted mirthlessly. What a terrible alias if Ramsay was trying to pull one over on him.

“I knew a Bolton once.”

Dom winced. “Yeah…I get that a lot. Unless you mean Michael Bolton—no relation—you might have heard about my brother in the news.” He smiled uncomfortably. “Half-brother. Ramsay was always…I’ve been thinking about changing my name. It feels weird to have people know I’m related to an actual psychopath.”

Half-brother? Theon eyed him again, those small not-quite-Ramsay imperfections he’d picked up on earlier. Ramsay had mentioned a brother. But he’d said that brother was dead. But then again, Ramsay lied.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Dom went on. “This really isn’t how I wanted our conversation to go.”

“No?” Theon raised an eyebrow. “How did you want our conversation to go?”

“Well…I was hoping I’d waltz over here and charm you so hard you’d say yes to a date.” His smile was confident, but there was an unmistakable nervousness in those pale eyes, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Ramsay probably couldn’t fake that. Probably.

Theon pretended to think for a second. “Alright,” he said, and took a long drink from the beer Dom had bought for him. “Sure.”

“Really? You’re not—I’d understand if you said no.”

“I’m not saying no. I’m saying yes.” In one long pull, Theon finished what was left of the beer and slid the empty glass towards Dom. “You can start by buying me another beer.”

Dom nodded and raised his hand to get the bartender’s attention. While his back was turned, Theon felt for the knife in his pocket. The one he’d taken to keeping on him at all times for the past year, even sleeping with it under his pillow.

Maybe Dom was telling the truth. Maybe he really was Ramsay’s estranged half-brother, alive after all. Maybe he actually was a really nice guy. And maybe, when Theon got him in bed later tonight, he’d find that Dom didn’t have any of Ramsay’s scars, or the distinctive tattoo of a flayed man on his back—the marks even the best plastic surgery wouldn’t entirely erase. And if that was the case, and Dom really was just a nice guy, then come morning maybe they would never see each other again. Or maybe they would. Maybe this would turn into the first serious relationship he’d had since escaping that basement.

But if not, Ramsay would learn that Theon could also put on an act. And this time _he’d_ be the one to put Ramsay back in the ground.


	8. Carrying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunflower asked for:
> 
> _One where Ramsay becomes obsessed with the idea that Theon could actually carry his heir. Either he's truly deluded or it's an elaborate game, whatever sounds more fun..._
> 
> Hoo boy, did you come to the right person. [This](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141056) was my first fanfic ever, after all.

“Have you gained weight, Reek?”

Reek looked up from his sweeping. “M’lord?”

Ramsay knocked the broom out of his clumsy fingers and pushed him up against the wall. He enjoyed the pained little whines he drove out of his pet as the fresh whip marks on his back pressed against the hard stone. “Don’t play coy with me.” He hiked up Reek’s tattered shirt, exposing his belly.

When Ramsay had him on his back, it sank inwards, hollow and concave. Empty, as one would expect. Only when Reek was allowed to stand, like he was now, or lean forward was there a noticeable bulge to his gut, a softness that stood out against all the hard edges of his bones. Ramsay had noticed it for the first time last night, when he’d had Reek on his hands and knees. A bulge where emptiness should be. An explanation was in order.

“You’ve been pinching food from the kitchens, haven’t you?”

“N-no, m’lord!” Reek protested.

“You know you’re not supposed to be eating without my permission.”

“I’m not, m’lord! I swear it!”

“You’ve disobeyed me, Reek, gone behind my back. You know what happens now, don’t you?”

Tears sprang to his pet’s eyes. They came so easily now. “No, please! I haven’t disobeyed you!”

“Then what is this?” Ramsay pushed on Reek’s stomach. The soft flesh gave easily under his hand.

“I don’t…I don’t know, m’lord,” Reek whimpered.

“Do people usually get fat when they don’t eat?”

He could see Reek’s little mind whirling around in his empty head, trying to explain in.

“What shall your punishment be for disobeying me, Reek?”

Reek hung his head, and the tears that had formed in his eyes dripped down his face. “Wh-whatever pleases you, m’lord.”

“I’ll have to give it some thought.” Ramsay ran his hand up and down Reek’s stomach. Reek winced, and Ramsay’s own mind ran. Not in circles, like Reek’s. But straight like an arrow at a target. Ah, yes, there was the bull’s-eye. “Well now, Reek,” he said with a grin.

Reek lifted his head at the abrupt change in tone.

“I wish you had just been honest with me from the beginning.”

Reek’s eyes were wide and blank with fearful incomprehension. “Yes, m’lord,” he said, agreeing for the sake of agreeing.

“I mean, if you had told me you were with child, I would have given you all the food you needed.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“M’lord?”

“You’ve been eating for two. That’s why you’ve been stealing from the kitchens.”

“I…” Ramsay could see it, Reek’s brain throwing itself futilely around in his skull, trying to work out the right thing to say. What Ramsay wanted to hear. Ramsay knew him so well, he could pinpoint the exact moment Reek decided not to deny it. “I am, m’lord.”

“You are…what?”

Reek’s shoulders tensed. “I am…with child, m’lord.”

Ramsay grinned and stepped back, unpinning Reek from the wall. “This is excellent news, Reek. Although, I wonder why you didn’t tell me straightaway? You know how long we’ve been trying.”

A flicker of horror filled Reek’s face before his mind went to work again. It was like watching a child try to solve a complicated puzzle. “I…I wanted to be sure,” he said, wringing his hands together. “Truly, you were to be the first to know, m’lord.”

Reek squeaked when Ramsay lifted him off his feet and spun him around. “Oh, Reek, you’ve made me so happy. Imagine! Our son is growing in your belly!” He spun him a few more times before stopping and collecting his pet up in his arms, like a bride. “Come, let’s get you something to eat. If you’d just told me in the first place, I would have opened the entire kitchen to you.”

Reek squirmed as Ramsay began to carry him. “I wasn’t—I never meant to hide anything from you, m’lord.”

“None of that ‘m’lord,’ business. You’re carrying my heir. That means there’s proof that our wedding was consummated. You should call me your lord husband.”

“I…yes, my lord husband,” Reek said in almost a whisper. He threw his arms around Ramsay’s neck, as if terrified that his lord husband would drop him. “Whatever you believe your…your Reek deserves.”

“Good.” Ramsay turned the corner and kicked in the door to the kitchen. The wench inside let out a startled scream. “Enough of your shrieking, woman,” Ramsay bellowed at her as she shrank back from him. “My lady wife requires a meal fit for growing my son inside his belly.”

The kitchen wench’s face was pale as she looked from Ramsay to Reek, who shyly buried his head in the crook of Ramsay’s neck. Her little wheels were turning too, but she had the sense to not ask any questions. “R-right away, my lord,” she said with a curtsey, and then hurried to the larder.

Ramsay carried Reek to the table where the servants congregated to have their meals and deposited him in one of the chairs. “We shall get you a fine meal,” he said, patting his pet’s head. Reek’s head bowed under the pressure of his hand. “To celebrate the good news.”

“Yes, m’lo—my lord husband,” Reek’s tiny voice said. “Good news.”

“What’s the matter, Reek? Are you not happy?”

Reek’s back bent even further as he hunched towards the table. “I am happy. Very happy. I am happy to serve you, my lord husband.”

“You are finally going to be useful for once in your pathetic life, by carrying on the Bolton line. That’s quite an honor for a dumb little thing like you.” Ramsay grinned. “Let us hope our son takes after _me_.”

“I’m sure he will, my lord husband.”

The kitchen wench came scurrying back with a hurriedly prepared tray of bread and soup that had doubtless been sitting in the pot for several days. Ramsay knocked it out of her hands, sending it scattering to the floor. “I said a meal fitting fit for my heir!”

“Sorry, my lord!” she cried.

When she bent down to pick up the mess, Ramsay delivered a kick to her ribs that sent her sprawling to the ground as well. “No dawdling, woman. I want meat, something red and hearty, and cheese and fruit. The finest.”

“Yes…my lord,” she gasped as she struggled up to her knees.

“Prepare it and bring it here.” He gave her another kick to her back to hurry her along. “My son is hungry _now_.”

Whimpering, she crawled away, hopefully to do her job correctly this time.

“I’m sorry about that,” Ramsay said, returning to the table. Reek had his head hung and flinched when Ramsay took a seat next to him. “My son and lady wife deserve nothing but the best.”

“As you say, my lord husband.”

“Although…” He traced the fingers on Reek’s hand. “You do need to be punished for lying to me…earlier.”

Reek’s throat bobbed, but only a tiny whine escaped. “As you say.”

“Now, don’t worry, Reek.” Ramsay reached across the table and grabbed hold of his hand, gnarled, twisted, so unladylike with its missing fingers. “I know you’re in a delicate condition right now. I would never do anything to hurt our son. That’s why I’m only going to take _one_ of your fingers.” He brushed his free hand along Reek’s cheek. “I’ll even let you choose which finger I’m going to take.”

“Thank you, my lord husband,” Reek said, and then he began to sob with happiness and gratitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've updated the amount of chapters to reflect the overflow I got from the first rounds of requests. So if yours hasn't been filled by Chapter 10, don't worry, it will still get filled. I'll make a public announcement when requests are open again.


	9. Forgiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> attaining said: 
> 
> _I’ve always thought that scene in the show where Ramsay has Theon get on his knees to ‘forgive’ him had to end with sexual content, like Reek showing his ‘gratitude’ to Ramsay._
> 
> I promise you're not the only one who's though that. ;)

“Get on your knees.”

Reek got on his knees.

“Give me your hand.”

Reek held out his hand, trembling, and his master took it.

A moment like a tensely pulled bowstring passed between them in that cold room.

“I forgive you.”

Reek looked up through his bangs, seeking out his master’s gaze.

“I can tell that you truly are sorry.” Ramsay was looking back down at him with a face full of patient benevolence.

Reek trembled under that benevolence. “Yes, m’lord, I am. I never meant—I wasn’t—”

“Shh, pet, I know.” Ramsay stroked his hair, and Reek bent his head. “I know you are sorry. And I know you want to show me how sorry you are.”

Reek jerked his head back up. “Yes, m’lord! Anything!”

Ramsay smiled. Such a benevolent smile. His eyes flicked down to his crotch, and he gave a subtle nod.

Reek knew what he wanted, and swallowed. “Yes, m’lord,” he repeated as Ramsay released his hand. “Anything.” He settled himself on his knees, cold stones biting through his thin rags. His hands continued to tremble as he reached for his master’s breeches. His fingers felt like awkward blocks of wood as he tried to untie the laces.

“You’re so clumsy when you’re eager,” Ramsay chided, but made no motion to help. A small mercy, that he allowed Reek to do this on his own. To prove how truly eager he was to earn his master’s forgiveness.

It took a long time. Such an interminably long time. But finally Reek managed to get the laces loose enough to let his master’s breeches down. Ramsay’s cock slipped out. He was limp, entirely unimpressed by his pet’s pathetic display.

Reek swallowed the urge to apologize again and leaned in. Over time, he’d lost his “shyness” about sucking cock, among other things, but a familiar swell of shame and revulsion still overtook him as he took the tip in his mouth and began to suckle. Above him, Ramsay groaned. Reek kept going, taking more as he coaxed his master’s prick to hardness, until he could better close his lips around the shaft and hug it tight.

Ramsay threaded his hands through Reek’s hair, grabbing hold of his mats. But there was no force behind it, just more gentle benevolence that Reek knew he didn’t deserve.

“Oh, Reek, what would Lady Sansa think if she could see you like this?”

Reek, obviously, didn’t say anything.

“You let her see you in the kennels, but you do suppose she really knows how low you debase yourself? Tell me, was she disgusted to see you?”

Reek didn’t say anything, but kept his eyes averted. Tried to focus on his task, the weight of the prick against his tongue and the pressure of it in the back of his throat as he took it deeper.

“How disgusted would she be now, hmm? The man who burned her home and murdered her brothers…sucking her future lord husband’s cock like some cheap Wintertown whore.”

“No, m’lord,” Reek said, finally pulling back enough to speak. “That was Theon Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy is dead. I’m Reek. Good Reek. Loyal Reek.”

“That’s right.” Ramsay’s hands tightened in Reek’s hair. “But I don’t remember giving you permission to speak.”

Reek nodded and hurriedly swallowed his master’s cock, all the way to the hilt. His master’s flesh had an odd taste to it—earthy and salty—and it would linger on his tongue for hours afterwards, no matter how he tried to scrub it out. Not that he _tried_ to scrub it out. Not anymore.

He began building his rhythm, bobbing his head, hollowing his cheeks. Ramsay groaned again and fisted Reek’s hair even tighter. “Perhaps you will teach my lady wife to suck cock like a whore.” His breathing grew heavier as he spoke. “They tell me she is a virgin. Not sure I believe that. She _was_ married to the Imp, after all. But if it is true, she’ll need to learn these things. Hopefully she’s a faster learner than you were.”

Reek focused on the way his throat spasmed whenever Ramsay’s prick hit that spot that churned his stomach. He’d had to learn how to relax it, to ignore the urge to vomit. It had taken time, and Ramsay, for all his benevolence, was not a patient teacher.

He focused on that, relaxing his throat. The hardness of the stones under his knees. The coldness of the room and the heat of his master’s skin. Anything but Lady Sansa…

He closed his eyes, and a tear broke free from his lashes. He felt it trickle down the grime of his cheek and drip off his chin.

“Mmm,” Ramsay breathed in sharply, and from the tightening of his muscles, Reek could tell he was close. “Yes, you’ll teach her. And how pretty will that be. All the things she’ll have to learn, until she’s nice and broken in. Just like you.”

And with a jerking motion, he bucked into Reek’s mouth and unloaded his seed, thick and hot. Reek swallowed, felt it settle heavily in his stomach. He’d had to learn to keep it down. He’d also learned to only pull away when Ramsay allowed him, when the hands in his hair loosened and he was allowed to sink back onto his heels.

His whole face felt swollen and puffy. With a sniffle, he wiped away the snot and tears and remnants of seed dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

“Alright, Reek.” Ramsay tucked himself back into his breeches and squatted down to cup Reek’s face. “You’re forgiven.”

“Thank you, m’lord,” Reek said, and his heart was overfilled with gratitude. “Thank you.”


	10. Bargaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vedic-anarchist asked: 
> 
> _Can you do one in which Ramsay is a demon, and Theon has sold his soul to him?_
> 
> I...I have no real explanation for this one, guys. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ But you should know by now that, like Theon in this story, you should always be careful what you ask for.
> 
> Just a head's up. There's some diabetic-level Throbb at the beginning.

“Have a good day. I’ll see you tonight,” Robb said and gave Theon a kiss on the cheek as he passed.

Not content, Theon stopped abruptly at the doorway, turned, pulled Robb to him one-armed, and gave his husband a firm kiss on the mouth. “I can hardly wait,” he said.

Robb’s face was flushed. He looked almost like the boy who had shyly said yes to Theon’s proposal almost five years ago now. Five years that had been the happiest in Theon’s life. Robb smiled and grabbed hold of Theon’s tie, pulling him back through the door for one last peck on the cheek. “Maybe I have something in mind for after the party…”

“Yeah?” Theon asked, and he let his briefcase fall so he could rest his hands on Robb’s hips. “Something special for my birthday?”

“I think you’ll like it…oh!” Robb blinked as he remembered something. “I got hold of your dad. He says he and Alannys would _love_ to come to the party.”

“Yeah?”

“But that’s not the surprise,” Robb said cheekily, and finally let go of his tie. “I just wanted to let you know. Balon says he’s going to propose a toast to your new promotion…but you’re not supposed to know that.”

“I’ll be sure to act surprised.”

“Well,” Robb huffed, his cute little mock-huff, “you’re not likely to keep your promotion if you show up late for work.”

“Right, right.” Theon tore his hands off of Robb and retrieved his briefcase from the floor. As much as he would love to spend all day at home with his husband, making proper use of every room in their house, he also enjoyed his work. And especially his new office, on the top floor of the Targaryen building downtown, where he had a view of the entire city. One day he’d bring Robb in to work and fuck him on that big, shiny desk. “Well…I’m off.”

He left Robb waving to him on the front steps. And it was on that day, on his twenty-seventh birthday, that Theon Greyjoy stepped off the curb and was struck by bus and immediately killed on impact.

***

Theon woke up to a burning tightness around his throat. He was terribly confused and disoriented. It was dark. He couldn’t see anything, didn’t know where he was. All he knew was that there was something too warm and too tight around his throat.

“Hello?” he called out. “Is somebody there?”

“ _I’m_ here,” a voice called back in the darkness. A voice that sent chills creeping along Theon’s neck. Just two words. But he recognized that voice all the same.

A soft red glow flared to life, and in it, Theon saw a man’s face. A face he also recognized. A face he had last seen five years ago.

“You were expecting maybe the Pearly Gates?” Ramsay grinned.

Ramsay wasn’t really what Theon had been expecting when he’d tried summoning a demon from one of his uncle’s old books. Ramsay looked very much like a human, save the stumpy little horns growing out of his forehead, though he had taken offense when Theon had called them “stumpy.” If it weren’t for the fact that he’d appeared in a cloud of smoke and brimstone, Theon would have pegged him for some edgy goth in stage makeup.

But Ramsay was the real deal. A real, bona fide demon. “First level of hell,” he’d sintroduced himself on that day, producing his card. It turned out demons had business cards. “I’m working my way down, though.”

Theon stared at him now, the red glow on his face. “This isn’t real.”

“Very real.” Ramsay sauntered up to him, and the light grew brighter, illuminating a room that could really only be described as a dungeon—damp stone walls, chains hanging from the ceiling, the whole shebang. “I know you remember me. And our bargain.”

“Yes, but…you said that wouldn’t be until I died.”

Ramsay chuckled. “Turns out you bit the big one, _Theon Greyjoy_.” He knelt down and flicked Theon on the nose. “So…now you’re dead.”

“No.” Theon reached up for the thing around his neck, trying to tear it off, but his hands only found solid iron. Iron that burned his hands, and he pulled them back with a yelp. “No, no, no, this isn’t happening. I was just with Robb. We were going to celebrate my birthday tonight. My father was going to be there.”

“Yeah, all my work,” Ramsay said. “The childhood sweetheart-turned-husband, the big, fancy house, the promotion, the doting father…all stuff you asked for and all stuff I delivered.” With a groan, he settled himself on the stone floor. His finely tailored black suit didn’t so much as wrinkle. “If you wanted to keep all that nice stuff going, maybe you should have been more careful crossing the street.”

Theon stared at him.

“Do you want me to replay the footage?” Ramsay reached out a hand and grabbed hold of Theon’s hair.

“Hey, what are you—?”

He cried out as something sharp dug into his forehead. He smelled his skin burning. Everything around him went white. And when his vision faded back in, he was watching himself, from somewhere above his body, like a movie unfolding in front of him.

He watched the scene, unable to move, unable to speak. Unable to do anything as the past version of himself skipped down the steps to the street while Robb waved at him from the house. He watched himself strut along the sidewalk until he got to the spot where he needed to cross to get to his car. Then he watched himself step out onto the street and turn just in time to actually see the city bus barreling into him. The impact was quick, surreal in how fast it happened. Theon watched his body go flying, heard Robb yell.

He also noticed, from his vantage point above it all, that Ramsay was sitting on that city bus, leaning uncomfortably close over the bus driver’s shoulder, so that the woman had to turn to yell at him to stop distracting her just as Theon was crossing the road.

In a burst of light, the vision vanished, and the dungeon, and Ramsay’s leering face, returned. The pain in his forehead was gone, but the memories of what Ramsay had shown him lingered.

“Did you…?” He gasped. His throat was so dry. “Did you fucking kill me?”

“I didn’t kill you,” Ramsay said, blinking innocently as he released Theon’s hair. “I just moved things along. I’m not the most patient demon, you see. Don’t worry, I’m sure your husband will get a pretty payout from the city. Grieving widower of a young, successful businessman, cut down in the prime of his life.”

“Shit.” It came out as distant, detached. Theon sank back on his haunches. “I’m really dead?” He couldn’t believe it.

Ramsay snapped his fingers in front of Theon’s face, startling him. “Look, I need you to keep up here,” he snarled. “Yeah, you’re dead. But more importantly, that means your tab has come due. You remember what you promised me for all those nice things, yeah?”

Theon shook his head, purely out of denial. “No. No, you…you killed me. That should nullify our agreement.”

In an instant, he was being hauled to his feet as Ramsay grabbed hold of the burning iron collar around his throat. Lifted off his feet and shaken. “Think your fancy law degree means anything in hell? Well…yes, actually, we have quite a few lawyers down here. But that just means you should know to always check the fine print. Our deal never specified that you would live a _long_ life after I gave you everything you asked for. And I did. I gave you _everything_ you asked for. Every. Thing.”

Theon choked as he was throttled. The collar seemed to grow tighter and hotter with every one of Ramsay’s violent shakes. “Please!” he cried. It came out as barely a gasp.

“Please?” Ramsay’s arms stilled, and Theon hung limply in his grasp, head lolling, struggling to draw breath. “Please, what? What sort of asking power do you think you have here? I own your _soul_ , Greyjoy. You agreed to give it to me. Or do I need to show you that memory too?”

He reached out a hand again, and Theon shook his head. “No, no, I remember.”

“Then you understand what it means? That I own your eternal soul? I can do whatever I want. This?” He rattled the collar. “This is your mark of damnation. It marks you as mine. Forever.” He drew Theon closer, so that the stink of his brimstone breath washed over him. “Mortals don’t usually understand just how long ‘forever’ really is. Takes them a few hundred years for it to really set it.”

A sob welled up in Theon’s throat, but it couldn’t work its way past the collar. This was a nightmare. All a nightmare. And any second now he’d wake up in his big bed in his big house next to his loving husband, who would comfort him and _tell_ him how it was all a nightmare.

“Did you know,” Ramsay said with an evil smirk, “that you’re actually my very first soul?”

Theon stared at him uncomprehendingly. Tears formed in his eyes, and sizzled against his skin as they slid down his cheeks, evaporating instantly.

“We’re going to have so much fun together, you and me,” Ramsay chuckled. “A hell of a time.”


	11. Programming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cig-100 said:
> 
> _so i want to request a prequel of your work '[Android Dreams and Electric Sheep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7259245/chapters/16482862)'. umm like the first time Ramsay bought pantheon model android and set his mode...? idk just any scene with android theon and master ramsay would be fine!_
> 
> This was pretty nostalgic for me, ngl. I had so much fun writing the original, and then going back to it...good times.

Ramsay sat staring at the box for a long minute, taking in the sleek logo of ZynthCorp printed on the top and sides. It never got old, the moment of anticipation before he pried open the lid. Just like opening a new toy. A feeling that was not discouraged by ZynthCorp’s slogan, emblazoned beneath its logo: _Your new companion is waiting_.

Finally, Ramsay decided he’d looked at the box long enough. His heart beat with excitement as he undid the snaps holding the lid in place. He’d never ordered such a highly personalized Zynth before, and he was eager to see how well the Corp had met his specifications. The box hissed as the snaps opened and the pressured air whooshed out. Ramsay threw open the lid and peered inside.

His first impression was that he’d been sent a corpse. The body was _that_ lifelike. Eerie in its absolutely stillness. Beautiful.

Ramsay ran his hands through the dark hair, feeling its texture between his fingers. He’d had a few Zynths with synthetic hair before, and it always made gripping it and pulling it less satisfying. But this was real human hair, just like he’d asked for. He could just _feel_ the difference.

They’d gotten every little detail right, from the face to the build. Even its cute little cock. Ramsay couldn’t wait to see what the Zynth felt like on the inside. From past experiences, it was pretty damn close to the real thing. And the Pantheon series was supposed to be cutting edge—“realer than real,” the website had boasted. The promise of what that could possibly mean had haunted Ramsay’s fantasies all week.

But he was already getting ahead of himself.

First he needed to bring it to life.

He easily found the plug at the base of the Zynth’s head and hooked it up to his computer, resting on the floor next to the box. The familiar ZynthCorp jingle sounded as it started up. Ramsay dismissed the tutorial that popped up—“Do you need help setting up your new companion?” No. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He only did a quick rundown of all the specs, to make sure they were what he had ordered, before clicking over to the personality files. Files he’d carefully been assembling all week, basically from the moment he’d hit “buy” on the ZynthCorp website. Now _this_ …this was something new for him.

Ramsay had dabbled in modding Zynths before, of course. But he’d never made a personality from scratch. It had been enlightening, and more than just a little fun, to browse through the forums and its pages upon pages of other mods, picking and choosing anything that struck his fancy. His friends had offered suggestions as well. Ben Bones had been the one to suggest he try adding components from a dog’s personality, and that had struck Ramsay as both hilarious and perfect, so he’d done it.

He’d made something rather beautiful, if he did say so himself. Something crafted from the top down to be a perfect fit for him. Now he just needed to put the mind and body together. He hit “load.”

It took over ten hours to load, which pissed Ramsay off to no end. None of his other Zynths had taken that long. To pass the time, he drove out to the countryside for a quick hunting trip, past the abandoned meat packing plant where he usually cleaned his kills. In the woods there, he shot a deer, hitting it in the leg. It left an easy, bloody trail for Ramsay to follow, which really wasn’t much of a hunt at all. Although he did get some enjoyment out of catching up with it and slitting its throat, in the end, it wasn’t worth dragging back to the plant. He left the corpse in the woods to rot and headed back for the city.

By the time he got home, the download had finished, and all he had to do was click the “start” button. He was so excited, he didn’t even change out of his blood-splattered hunting clothes. Just hit the button and turned to the coffin-shaped box lying on his living room floor.

The milliseconds it took for the command to travel from the cord to the Zynth felt like an eternity. But then…

The Zynth’s eyes opened. Oh, what big, beautiful eyes. And long lashes.

It sat up, and those big, beautiful eyes roved around until they landed on Ramsay, and then the facial recognition systems kicked in and it realized it was looking at a human. “Hello,” the Zynth said in that chipper voice they all had when they were first straight out of the box. “This Zynth unit is waiting to hear from its administrator.”

Ramsay read off the serial code and was pleased when he received, “Serial code accepted.” Some of the older models took some time to understand their owners’ voices, the individual cadence and inflections. But this Zynth should be state-of-the-art. It shouldn’t have any of those problems.

And it didn’t. Still looking at him, it said, “Greetings, administrator. What should I call you?”

Already sounding a little more human. And that would improve with time, as it used its personality more. Ramsay grinned at the prospect. He could hardly wait.

“Master,” he said.

“Greetings, Master,” the Zynth said. “And what would you like to call this unit?”

“Reek,” Ramsay said, and had to keep from snickering to himself. Damon had come up with that one, and it just hadn’t left him.

He had to admit he was a little disappointed when the Zynth smiled blandly and nodded as it added its new name to its data. Of course, the humiliation of the name would be lost on a robot.

It stood up and stepped out of the box, standing tall and straight and completely naked in front of him. It was beautiful, cut to his specifications. Everything, from the unsubtle V-shape of the hip bones to the dip where throat met clavicle. The angle of the jaw, androgynous. The muscles, the skin, all the delicate little pieces…all new and shiny and ready to be played with.

“What would you like me to do, Master?” it asked, so eagerly that Ramsay felt a sudden rush to his prick. “I’m here to serve.”

“That’s right,” Ramsay said, putting a hand on the android’s head and pushing down. It seemed to know exactly what it needed to do, because he guided it to its knees with ease. It sank down, big, beautiful eyes staring up at him, waiting for its next command. Like it knew what it had been built to do. Ramsay reached for the zipper of his pants. “You are.”


	12. Swearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ephelia gave this prompt: 
> 
> _Reek helps Jeyne/Sansa escape the Dreadfort in an act of self-sacrifice, but has to face the terrible consequences from Ramsay as he stays behind. Maybe Jeyne/Sansa sees Reek after she’s safe with Jon and feels guilty about what Reek has been put through to save her._

A white field. Dark horses. Their breaths came harsh in the cold, steaming.

Sansa sat atop her mare, keeping her body calm, even as if felt like every inch of her skin was being pricked at by needles. She hadn’t seen _him_ since the night before Stannis’s attack, and even now, watching him on his own dark horse, it was hard to remind herself that this was her husband. And she was going to see him dead by the end of the day. She swore it, to the same gods who had heard her wedding vow under the weirwood.

“Can you not muster any warmth for your lord husband?” Ramsay grinned. That wicked grin when he knew he was going to get his way. He wouldn’t. Not this time.

“Lord Bolton,” she acknowledged coldly, a slight tilt of her chin.

He continued to smirk and sat back on his horse. “Lady Bolton.” He nodded to Jon. “Lord Bastard. Have you considered your terms of surrender?”

“We are not here to discuss surrender,” Jon stated. “We’re here to discuss the release of your hostage.”

Ramsay glanced lazily over his shoulder to the pale horse tethered to his own, and the figure atop that horse, wrists bound, a sack over his head. “Well, yes,” he said, scratching at his cheek. “I did bring someone you know.”

Sansa’s heart thundered in her chest. She knew they must all hear it. They must sense her fear. Yet she kept herself still. Ice on the outside. “Release my brother,” she said. They must hear the quaver in his voice. They must. “Release Rickon back to us, and perhaps we’ll consider granting you mercy.”

“Oh, you’re willing to show me mercy now?” Ramsay grinned.

“Yes.” Sansa tightened her hold on the reins. Her horse could sense her unease and stamped its hooves in agitation. “A quick death.”

Ramsay let out a barking laugh. Sansa’s blood ran hot and cold, all at once. The prickling of her skin was unbearable.

“Alright.” Ramsay motioned to his guards, who dragged the bound figure from the horse. The figure let out a pained grunt as he was shoved to the snowy ground, landing on his knees. Sansa gritted her teeth. She wanted to leap from the horse, run to her brother’s side. She’d known she would and had prepared herself to steel her nerves. It clawed at her, but she held still.

Utterly still.

“Rickon,” Jon called out. “Are you unharmed?”

“ _Rickon_ is indeed unharmed,” Ramsay answered, leaning against the pommel of his saddle, snide smirk on his face. “For the moment, at least.” He jerked his chin, and one of the guards stepped forward to tear the bag from the figure’s head.

Sansa’s heart stopped. Her breathing stopped.

“Theon.”

The last she’d seen of him, he’d been leading the hunting dogs away from her. Laying down his own life to buy her just the time she needed to run across Brienne of Tarth. Or at least, that’s what she’d assumed all these months. That he had died. Nightmares of dogs tearing him apart had haunted her sleep. But here he was, alive.

If alive was the correct word.

His eyes had been gouged out, left as nothing but singed flesh, red and angry across his face. His lips had been sewn shut with coarse twine, very recently by the swelling of the stitches. And that was just what she could see of him. Under his clothes…what had Ramsay _done_ to him? What had he _been_ doing to him? All this time. If she’d _known_ —if she’d even _suspected_ , she would have…

Theon knelt there on the ground, his head bent as if under a great weight, and suddenly Sansa’s stomach lurched. She clenched her jaw tight. She would not vomit. She could not. Not in front of Ramsay. She forced the welling in his throat back down, the prickling of tears in her eyes away.

“What is this?” Sansa demanded. “Where’s Rickon?”

“So cold, even to your old friend,” Ramsay said, still grinning. “Reek has been keeping me company while you’ve been gone. You can see, I’ve a few adjustments. I’ll show them all to you in detail when you’re back home where you belong.”

Theon whimpered, a low, keening sound.

“You’re sick.” It slipped out before Sansa could stop it. She urged her horse forward a few steps, and Ramsay looked genuinely surprised. He smiled in that impish way, as if he knew how this was going to end. He didn’t. Sansa was going to _tell_ him how it was going to end. “I’m going to kill you, Lord Bolton. With my own hands. And you’ll be screaming the entire time. I promise it.”

Ramsay laughed again. Threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. His breath steamed in the air.

“Lady Bolton, I _will_ be glad to have you back,” he said, taking a gasping breath. “It will be good to have someone to speak to, to entertain me. Reek isn’t much of a conversationalist these days. But…he has his charms.”

On the ground, Theon sniffled.

“Do you have Rickon or not?” Jon demanded.

“Oh, I have him, Lord Bastard.” Ramsay reached into his horse’s satchel and pulled out something large, black, and furry. He tossed it onto the ground and it rolled to their feet. The head of Shaggydog, eyes rolled back in his head, tongue lolling. “The little Lord Stark is unharmed, as I said. But…he’s not _here_.” Ramsay shrugged. “I guess you’ll just have to come and get him.” He grinned toothily. “But if we’ve nothing further to discuss here…”

“Wait,” Jon said, and even Sansa was surprised when he nodded to Theon. “ _We’ll_ be taking him.”

Ramsay snorted and reached for the sword at his side. “You’re welcome to try to take him from me, Lord Bastard.” His guards drew their bows.

 _He won’t let us take him_ , Sansa wanted to say. _Never, ever_. Jon didn’t understand who he was dealing with yet. Didn’t understand that once you belonged to Ramsay, he never let go. He dug his teeth in, like a dog guarding a bone. And held. If she’d known Theon was…all this time…maybe she could have…

Jon’s jaw tightened, but he did nothing as Ramsay motioned for his men to get back on their horses.

“You know, this is the first time Reek has been out in so long,” Ramsay said as one of the guards went to haul Theon up. “Let’s let him use his legs. He can walk behind the horses.”

The guard hesitated. “Are you sure he can walk, m’lord, after…what you did to his feet?”

Ramsay waved his hand dismissively. “If he can’t keep up, we’ll just drag him back.”

“Yes…m’lord.”

Theon let out a low moan as he was pulled to his feet. The stitching in his mouth stretched but did not give. Sansa’s stomach once again roiled as she watched him being tied on a short lead attached to Ramsay’s saddle. _I’ll save you, Theon_ , she vowed to the same gods who had watched him give her away under the weirwood tree. _One way or another, I’ll see this ended. I swear it._


	13. Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Davrosfan3 asked: 
> 
> _Have you thought about one where Theon can’t live without Ramsay so after he is eaten by his own dogs he sneaks into night as the white walkers descend and finds his mauled body from where it was dumped and creeps way intending to resurrect him. Maybe Theon uses the priestess’s ruby choker to hide Ramsay’s true monstrous appearance so he looks alive but beneath that illusion he’s grotesque and Reek doesn’t want to see him or have him see himself that way._
> 
> I'm not even sure how to tag this one. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Enjoy.

Reek brushed the snow from his furs. The mud in the entranceway was churned up from the girls’ paws, their incessant back-and-forth in their post-hunt excitement. A glow at the end of the tunnel told Reek that his master was awake, or had woken up long enough to stoke the fire. He slept a lot, when the hunts were poor.

“Wha~at did you bring me, Re~ek?” A voice like cold wind through floorboards crept along the stones, raised gooseflesh along Reek’s arms.

“A good hunt today,” Reek called out, leaving great streaks of blood on the floor as he dragged their haul down the tunnel. “A stag.”

There was a pause.

“No…human fle~sh?”

“I…no, m’lord. There was none to be found.” People did not often leave their homes now. Very occasionally you might find a desperate hunter out in the woods. It wasn’t just the winter that kept them close to their hearths.

His master wouldn’t be pleased. Human flesh kept him awake the longest, and he complained constantly of hunger when he could not get it. The stag would sate him, though. It was better than coming back empty-handed.

Reek dragged the deer into the room at the end of the tunnel, where the fire threw its light across the ancient stones. This had once been a cache of some sort, he believed. Somewhere the Starks had hidden food or weapons. It had been empty when he’d stumbled across it, looking for somewhere to shelter him and his master.

Ramsay was reclined in the chair in front of the fire, just staring into it. The glow glinted off the ruby choker at his throat. He said it made him feel “warmer.” He fingered it idly as Reek entered, but didn’t look up.

Reek dropped the deer on the floor at his master’s side, and only then did Ramsay’s eyes flick over to it with interest.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a human,” Reek said, and backed away as his master stood from his chair. “We looked, my lord, truly we did.”

“Worthless,” Ramsay hissed.

“Yes, m’lord, I know.” Reek lowered his head.

Ramsay snorted and knelt down next to the stag’s body. With one brutal motion, he thrust his hand into the beast’s chest. Ribs and sinew snapped as he dug around. The blood ran fresh down his arm and onto the floor. He groped around until he found what he was looking for, then pulled the heart out. Blood splattered across his face, painting his pale skin as red as the ruby around his throat. He bit into the heart, tore it with his teeth.

Reek watched.

Ramsay ate the entire heart, devouring it like a mindless beast. Then he sank back on his haunches and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. This only smeared the blood over his face, but he didn’t seem to mind. He let out a contented sigh. “It will do. The girls can have the rest.”

Reek bent to grab the deer’s hind legs, to drag it back out into the hall. But in a flash, Ramsay’s hand clamped around Reek’s wrist, pinning him. His skin was only as warm as the stag’s blood and heat from the fireplace. And his grip was inhumanly tight. He had snapped the beast’s ribs with little care. He could snap Reek’s pitiful wrist with hardly a thought.

“A human heart would be better,” he said.

Reek swallowed. “I…I will try, m’lord. Next time.”

Ramsay stood, dragging Reek up with him. He squeaked as he was pushed up against the walls, inhuman hands pinning him. “Maybe I don’t feel like waiting for ‘next time.’ Maybe I’m hungry…now.”

Cold eyes, alight with a faint blue glow, bored into him, and Reek forced himself to nod. So often he froze up under that gaze, full of winter’s endless hunger. “Whatever…whatever my lord needs.” If his lord wanted his heart…

A long moment passed. The fire crackled.

“You know I would never eat you, Reek.” A clammy hand caressed his cheek, leaving the wetness of blood behind.

Reek shuddered at the touch, but leaned into it.

“Never,” Ramsay whispered against his ear. “You are my Reek.”

“I am your Reek,” Reek agreed.

“I _want_ to eat you.” Ramsay reached for the choker around his throat, began to unclasp it. “I want to devour you whole. How warm would your flesh make me?”

The heavy ruby fell away, and Reek groaned as his master pressed against him in his true form. Pressed a kiss to Reek’s cheek with his rotted lips. Dead hands, soaked in blood, running through Reek’s hair. Pulling him close. Reek shuddered with revulsion and also leaned in.

“But your flesh can warm me in other ways.” Ramsay’s breath smelled of earth and dirt, of dead things and dying things. The exposed bones of his fingers brushed Reek’s skin as he began to work his furs open. “So warm. My Reek.”

“Your Reek,” Reek agreed.

He felt his master’s arousal beneath his clothes. Shivered at the thought of that thing inside him, lifeless. Ramsay said he didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No pain, no pleasure. Just…cold. There was no true carnal enjoyment in fucking, from what Reek could understand. Except warmth. And maybe something else. “An itch,” his master called it.

Ramsay pulled back enough for Reek to see his face, with its ever-present death’s grin, teeth exposed through tears in the skin of his cheek. The cold of winter kept him very well, but he was fragile. He needed to keep eating, or he would slip into a deeper and deeper sleep and be harder and harder to wake each time. And he could not hunt on his own. Even with the girls. He _needed_ Reek. Only Reek could keep him warm, awake, alive.

“Your Reek,” Reek repeated, and wrapped his arms around his master’s neck and pulled himself flush against the rotting flesh. “Since always.”

“That’s right.” Ramsay kissed him, forced his rotted tongue past his lips and filled his mouth with the taste of earth and decay. Everything in Reek wanted to fight against it. Bile rose in his throat. But he did not fight it. He welcomed it, allowed his master to own his mouth. Ramsay pulled back with a sigh and rubbed his fleshless hand against his Reek’s cheek. “Until you’re dead and rotting in the ground.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your prompts. I have one more lightfic to fill and then I'm going to take a brief break, about a week or so while I get some work done. I'll make an announcement here and on tumblr when I open requests again, so stay tuned.


	14. Browsing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xtotel asked: 
> 
> _Can we anyhow possibly pretty please get modern au with robb seeing theon and ramsay in public??? Maybe in a pet shop haha or smth and theon has a collar and looks so different than the cocky loud theon he used to know bc hes ramsays pet now._
> 
> But of course!

“No, you’re not getting it. I need something _durable_.” Robb handed the chew toy back to the store clerk, tamping down on his frustration. She was just trying to be helpful, after all. “I bought him one of these last time and he destroyed it in five minutes.”

“Oh.” The store clerk turned the toy over in her hands, and if judging the amount of force needed to tear it apart. “Well, this is the most durable one we have in stock. Maybe…” She gnawed on her lip. “I’ll go check the backroom to see if we have anything else.”

“Thank you,” Robb sighed as she scurried off.

“You’re tense,” Jon noted. Unlike the clerk, he wasn’t being helpful in the slightest.

“Maybe that’s because my _dog_ is destroying my _house_.”

Jon didn’t look up from his phone, just shrugged. “He’s bored, Robb. You usually spend more time with him.”

There was definitely a hint of reproach there, and Robb couldn’t really argue back. He had been ignoring Grey Wind more than he should, taking him out to run less, spending nights over at Jeyne’s. And not just Grey Wind either…

“Hey, hey, behave now.”

Robb turned at the snuffling sound coming from the next aisle. Someone had brought their dog into the store. A big breed, by the sound of it. And well-trained by the way it settled down after the gentle admonishment. Maybe the owner could give him a tip on training. Gods knew, anything to keep Grey Wind from tearing up his furniture while he was gone…

Jon had gone back to his phone, so Robb took the opportunity to crane his neck around the rack of chew toys and squeakers. He was surprised to see no dog at all, but two men. One he recognized even.

Ramsay Bolton must have noticed him staring, because his head whipped around and those cold, pale blue eyes leveled on him. Ramsay recognized him too. His eyes went wide for just a fraction of a second before his face settled somewhere between a sneer and a smirk. “Well, look who it is, Reek.”

The other man, small and hunched over, made a startled noise in the back of his throat and ducked his head.

Robb really didn’t want to talk to either of them. And certainly not after the other man, still whimpering, buried his face in Ramsay’s shoulder. Ramsay and his friends had always been weird, had always made his skin crawl. Robb pointedly looked away and pretended to be interested in the chew toys, even though he already knew none of them would stand up under Grey Wind’s teeth.

“What’s the matter?” Ramsay continued in that falsetto that had always made Robb’s gums prickle. “You don’t have anything to say to your old friend?”

“We’re not friends,” Robb snapped.

Ramsay smiled at that. Robb supposed that’s how he’d first known there was something off about Ramsay. He was always smiling, even when—actually, especially—when it was inappropriate. “You hear that, Reek? He’s not your friend.”

The other man let out another whimper and tugged on Ramsay’s sleeve. “Please, can we go?”

“None of that, pet.” Ramsay grabbed hold of his wrist and pried it off his sleeve. “What did I say about embarrassing me in public?”

The man sniffled, and Robb realized that was the sound he’d heard earlier, the sound he’d thought had been a dog. He was suddenly a thousand times more uncomfortable.

“Now be polite and at least acknowledge the nice man, won’t you?” Ramsay said, giving the other man’s wrist a sharp twist.

The man cried out in pain and Robb took a step forward. “Hey! Let go of him.” Weird friend or not, he couldn’t just stand by while Ramsay hurt him. He was already digging his phone out of his pocket to call the police when the man lifted his head. It was his eyes, peaking from between stringy bangs, that froze Robb to the spot. It hit him like déjà vu. Those blue-green eyes that had him examining the stranger again. “Theon?”

He hadn’t seen Theon in…months. His hair certainly hadn’t been that long. He hadn’t been that thin, that stooped over. But the moment he muttered, “H-hello, Robb” and then turned to hide his face in Ramsay’s shoulder again, Robb knew.

“Theon? That _is_ you.” He took another step forward. “What…what happened?”

Ramsay snorted. “Well, isn’t that the rudest fucking question.”

“What did you do to him?” Robb took several more steps forward, and winced at the way Theon flinched against Ramsay’s body. “What did you _do_ to him, Bolton?”

“Calm down, Stark.” Ramsay looped one arm over Theon’s frame. “You’re upsetting Reek.”

Reek. He’d called Theon that earlier, hadn’t he? What sort of sick—?

“Shh,” Ramsay cooed to the trembling body under his arm. “Don’t you mind him. He’s not your friend, he said it himself.”

“I…” Robb opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t seem to get anything to come out.

And anyway, neither of them were paying attention to him anymore.

“Hey, hey,” Ramsay murmured to Theon. “Focus.” He touched a finger to his own nose, the way Robb did when he was trying to get Grey Wind to pay attention to him. And just like Grey Wind when Robb did it, Theon’s eyesight tracked Ramsay’s motion to his eyes, like an obedient dog. “Focus on me. There we go. That’s a good boy. How about I let you pick one out for yourself, hmm?”

Ramsay unfurled his arm from Theon’s shoulders and turned to peruse the collars and leashes hanging on the display rack on the other side of the aisle. His fingers were deft as he sorted through the vast array of colors and patterns the pet store offered.

“Pink?” He pulled a collar off, the largest size the store had. “Disney Princesses? You like Disney Princesses, Reek?”

Theon nodded. He looked miserable, gaze turned towards the floor. Robb watched in horror as he hunched forward, lifting the straggly hair from his nape and offering his bare neck to Ramsay. Ramsay unhooked the collar and slid it around Theon’s neck, fastening it with a crisp click. He smiled indulgently the whole time, and for a second, his eyes met Robb’s over Theon’s shoulder, and his smile grew vindictive. Gloating.

Robb’s hands twitched, but he couldn’t seem to form a fist.

“There.” Ramsay finished and stepped back. “Let’s have a look at you, Reek.”

Theon stood up straight—well, slightly straighter than hunched over at least—and turned his head this way and that, giving Ramsay—and, by extension, Robb—a view of the dog collar. It was too tight. Robb could tell that right away.

Ramsay didn’t seem to care, though. “How do you like it, Reek?”

“Very pretty, sir,” Theon mumbled.

_Sir_?

“Does it make you feel pretty, hmm?”

Theon lowered his head. His bangs once again hid his eyes. “No, sir. Reek knows he’s not pretty.”

Robb’s skin tingled at the way Theon was talking about himself.

“Like putting lipstick on a pig,” Ramsay agreed, patting Theon’s head. “Alright, we’ll get it. I’m sure Kyra will love it. We’ll need to loosen it, of course. She doesn’t have a scrawny neck like you.”

“Yes, sir.” Theon nodded. “I hope she likes it.”

“Tell you what. Since you like that collar so much, I’ll even let you wear it out of the store. But when we get home, you’ve got to put your pinch collar back on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Robb didn’t even know what to say. What to do. It was like one of the nightmares where you couldn’t move. What…what was going on even?

“Robb?”

He blinked and turned and saw Jon standing next to him, fingers still poised over his phone.

“You alright?” Jon asked. Then he seemed to noticed Ramsay and Theon. “Oh, um…hey, Ramsay,” he said uncomfortably. Then nodding to Theon, “Reek.”

“Snow,” Ramsay acknowledged back just as stiffly. “We were just on our way out. Come on, Reek.” He pushed his way roughly between Robb and Jon, shoulder-checking Robb as he went. Theon trailed behind timidly, still wearing his collar. He didn’t even look at Robb as he passed, just kept his head down, his steps shuffling and awkward.

“The lady says they don’t have anything in the back but they could order something for you.”

Robb blinked again. Jon was looking at him like nothing strange had happened at all.

“For the toy,” Jon prodded him. “The dog toy.”

Right.

“Should I tell her to put the order in or do you want to just order it online? Probably cheaper.”

Robb couldn’t even focus. “You called him Reek.”

Jon looked over his shoulder, but Ramsay and Theon had already disappeared around the corner. “I mean…it’s what he wants to be called now.”

“You _knew_?”

“Knew what?”

“How long has Theon been hanging out with Ramsay?”

Jon looked at him, perplexed. “Robb, they’ve been _dating_ for three months now.”

Dating? Three _months_? Robb’s head spun. How hadn’t he known? Where had he _been_?

“What should I tell the salesperson?”

Robb shook his head, but the world was still spinning. “I’ll order something online,” he muttered, then turned and made a brisk pace down the row of colorful pet products, with their images of smiling, happy animals watching him. He couldn’t be in here anymore. And he certainly couldn’t get in line at the cashier behind Ramsay. And whoever that timid man with him was.


	15. Promising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theonsfavouritetoy asked for: 
> 
> _Anything where Euron idk wants to try out what Theon has been trained to. Would be. HorriblebutLovely._
> 
> I may have nudged for some Euron/Jon as well...

When they brought him in, the first thing Jon saw was Theon. Wrists bound above his head, held in place by a chain wrapped around a ceiling beam. He was completely naked. His back was turned to them, but even without seeing his face, Jon knew him. Knew the whip marks that crisscrossed his back, the patches of parchment-thin skin where he’d been flayed in the past. His body was trembling, from the cold or from being bound in such a position for who knew how long or simply out of fear, Jon couldn’t say. New bruises littered his thighs and arms, and the distinct smell of fresh blood lingered in the air.

 _I’m sorry, Theon_ , he thought, hanging his own head. _I promised I’d protect you._

Just another thing he’d failed at. Another promise he’d broken.

“Ah, welcome, Lord Commander.”

Jon did not lift his head.

“A man of few words, eh?” Boots echoed off stone as the other man in the room stepped forward. “I like that.”

Jon gritted his teeth. His hands, shackled together in front of him, clenched into fists. “You have what you want, Crow’s Eye. Let Theon go. He’s no use to you.”

“Mmm…” The noise that rumbled out of Euron Greyjoy’s throat was part thoughtful hum, part contented purr. “You’re right. Theon Greyjoy is no use to anyone. Unfortunately, from my understanding, my nephew perished during his ill-advised seizing of Winterfell.”

A sharp intake of breath finally caused Jon to look up, to find Euron running his hands up and down Theon’s back, tracing the scars there. Theon jerked against his touch; the chain rattled.

“Reek, on the other hand, has his uses, as he was showing me just before you arrived.” Euron toyed with the brittle, white hair of Theon’s head. “His previous master taught him quite well.”

Jon’s stomach flipped. “Get your hands off him!” He lurched forward, but one of the guards who’d brought him in grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him back. “Don’t touch him!”

Euron leaned his cheek against Theon’s shoulder, a mocking, tender gesture, and a ragged whimper rose up in Theon’s throat. Despite his time in Jon’s care at the Wall, he was still thin—as they all were, Jon supposed. But it was even more striking now. How small he looked, especially next to Euron.

“He begs so sweetly,” Euron went on. “I wonder who taught him that. Which bastard.”

Jon didn’t like what Euron was implying. Not one bit.

“I would _never_ ,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

Euron’s eyebrows rose, slightly lifting his eye patch. “Oh? Then why does he scream your name the loudest?”

 _Because I promised I would protect him_. Jon’s fists shook in useless rage. _I promised him, and I failed._

Euron knew, too. The way his eye settled on Jon, the glint to it. He knew Jon had never touched Theon, not like that. Never with the intent to hurt. Even if it gave him a sick thrill to think it.

“It was considerate of you and the Bolton Bastard to train him so well,” Euron said. “However…” With a theatrical sigh, he released Theon, and Theon sagged in the chains. “I must admit, there isn’t much fun in playing with a toy that’s already been broken. There’s no challenge in it, is there?”

“Then let him go,” Jon said. “If it’s a challenge you want…” He paused, but Euron already knew what he was going to say.

Theon did too. His lifted his white-haired head. “Jon.” His voice had the grit of sand to it, hoarse from screaming. “No.”

Jon drew in a breath through his nose. “You can have me,” he finished, forcing the tension out of his limbs, an act of submission he knew Euron wouldn’t miss.

And Euron didn’t. His blue-tinged lips spread into a wide grin. He took a step forward. Any step he took away from Theon was a good thing.

“Well now, that’s an interesting offer.” There was an almost feminine swagger to Euron’s step. Jon remembered that Theon used to walk like that when he’d been in a cocky mood. Back in Winterfell. Back when they’d both been whole. “Though I hear you’re not quite so unbroken-in yourself, Lord Commander. How many men was it?”

“What?” Jon said dumbly, caught off guard.

“How many of your own men took turns _stabbing into_ you, Lord Commander?”

Jon’s face flushed. How could Euron imply such vulgarity while at the same time striking so close to the intimacy of his brothers’ betrayal? Yes, he remembered each man, each uttered “for the watch,” each blade as it thrust into his body, between his ribs, sometimes striking off bone, sometimes digging lower, into his guts.

Euron came closer. Closer to Jon, farther from Theon. “Show me.”

Jon wasn’t sure what he meant, but in a flash, the two guards were tackling him, wrestling him to the ground. He fought back on instinct. Of course, there wasn’t much fight to be had with a bound man, and they easily had him spread on his back within moments, one man pinning his shackled wrists above his head, the other his ankles.

Euron finally breached the remaining space separating them, and there he was. Jon was aware of how tall his shape loomed over him. The smell of his sickly-sweet breath as he squatted down over Jon’s body, pulling a blade from his belt. Jon’s pulse jumped up into his throat.

“I want to see for myself,” Euron said, and he slid the little knife under the laces of Jon’s jerkin. The material parted easily. Euron ran the blade up the length of Jon’s stomach to his chest, as smoothly as if he were opening a sealed message. With his free hand, he pried open Jon’s jerkin, and with another quick, delicate motion, sliced through the undershirt beneath. The sound of rending fabric thundered in Jon’s ears, louder than even his pulse.

The final layer fell away, and Jon was left looking down the length of his own body, skin as pale as a corpse, nipples dark and peaking against the cold, scars littering his chest and stomach. Unlike Theon’s scars, which were pink and white from healing, his were dark, hard. The dead flesh had been sown together but never quite come alive again. It didn’t hurt, per se, but it was a constant ache. Always there in the periphery of his mind.

Euron’s eye drank it in greedily. With a hand as cold as death itself, he reached out and traced his fingers along the largest scar, on his stomach. Jon’s skin prickled with the urge to slough off his bones as the hand explored, tracing every dip and cut.

“What was it like?” he breathed, his voice full of awe. “To die?”

“Unshackle me and I’ll show you.”

Euron smiled like a proud parent. “Not completely broken, then.” He stood abruptly, and the men holding Jon to the floor let go. It was so unexpected, Jon felt like he’d been cast adrift, and he spluttered as he struggled to sit up. “Do you know why I came here, Lord Commander? To the Wall?”

Jon hadn’t a clue.

“I came to find you.” Euron put his knife back in his belt. “You’re the first man who’s died and come back. That I’ve been able to track down, at least.”

So, that was it.

“A priestess of R’hllor brought you back. That’s what I’ve heard. Is it true?”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear,” Jon said. His eyes slid to Theon, who had gone very still. Jon wondered if he’d passed out. Or worse. He prayed not. “If you release him.”

Euron followed his gaze with disinterest. “Why do you care so much, Lord Commander?”

Jon didn’t even need to think. “Because I promised him,” he said.

Euron watched him through his one eye, half-lidded. He was thinking, weighing. But Jon knew what he was going to say. It was as clear as the madness in his eye. He had come all the way to the Wall, in winter, because he wanted something. Very badly. And it wasn’t Theon.

“Very well,” he said at last, nodding to one of the silent guards. “Unchain my nephew.”

The guard nodded in return and made a deliberate pace over to where Theon was hanging from the beam. Theon was completely limp as he was let down, but the slight rise and fall of his chest told Jon he was still alive at least.

“You have to promise no harm will come to him,” Jon said.

“Lord Commander,” Euron chuckled, arms spread wide, “we both know I’m no man of my word.”

“But I am.” Jon leveled his gaze at Euron. “Until I see him leave the castle grounds with my own eyes, I won’t tell you anything.”

“Mmm,” Euron said, and this time it sounded annoyed. “Alright, I will let you watch with your own eyes as he walks out of here, under his own power if he’s able, until you have judged he is far enough away to be out of danger. How far will that be? Until he reaches the nearest tree line or the snow swallows him up? It makes no difference to me. Perhaps he will freeze to death, or be set upon by wild animals. Perhaps my men will simply hunt him down again. You’ll really have no way of knowing, will you?”

It was still the best chance Theon had. And Theon had survived things that would kill an ordinary man, over and over again. If Euron truly wanted to know the key to immortality, he’d ask Theon.

The guard gathered Theon’s body up into his arms, as easily as if he were a doll. Theon’s eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids, and a fitful groan escaped his throat. Jon watched as he was carried from the room, until he felt a hand tangle roughly in his hair and yank his head back.

Jon squirmed against the grip, against the shade-of-the-evening breath as Euron’s lips grazed his throat. “I said I wouldn’t—”

“I don’t expect you to tell me anything until my nephew is safe to your satisfaction,” Euron hummed, and Jon felt the rumble through his entire body. “But in the meantime, we can begin on _your_ training, Lord Commander.”


	16. Hopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Groove said: 
> 
> _If you haven’t done something like this already, I would love a modern AU type thing where Ramsay and the boys are having a big house party or frat party or whatever, and they basically just treat Theon like some kinda entertainment to push around, and eventually force him into a big gangbang_
> 
> I don't know why this image came to my mind, but it wouldn't leave me alone. So here you go.

His ears were slipping and his pantyhose was riding up his ass and he just _knew_ he was going to turn an ankle when another cry of, “Bunny! Hop, hop!” rose above the general din. Steeling himself, Theon wobbled across the room. He was not used to wearing heels and his knees buckled. He was doing his best, honest to God, but it wasn’t good enough for Skinner, who clapped his hands and yelled again, “Bunny! Hop, hop! I need another beer!”

“One for me too!” Sour Alyn belted out.

“Coming right up,” Theon replied with a smile. Because Ramsay specifically told him to smile. _No matter what_.

He stumbled his way to the kitchen, the hooting and hollering of the Boys chasing after him. At the fridge, he paused to readjust his headband before reaching in and pulling out two beers. The night was still young, and there was plenty more alcohol to get through. Theon shuddered at the thought of the Boys getting much more drunk than they already were.

How had he found himself here? In this ridiculous getup? Serving drinks to a half dozen rowdy frat boys? This wasn’t what he’d pictured at all when Ramsay had told him he was going to introduce him to his friends.

Cold beers in hand, he ventured back into the lion’s den. Skinner and Alyn were playing billiards at the pool table. All he had to do was pass through the living room, with its grungy, mismatched furniture, and deliver the drinks. He found that keeping his gaze focused on where he was going made walking easier. God, but these stilettos were killing his feet. How did women _do_ this?

He _felt_ like a bunny, too, hopping rather than walking, ass slightly lighted in the air. He squeaked in surprise when a hand reached out and squeezed his raised ass, right under the fluffy tail clip. He missed a step, one foot folding under the other. For one horrible second, he was falling. The bottles in his hands slipping. If he dropped them…oh God, if he dropped them…

Somehow, he caught himself. He landed on one of his knees. The filth-caked carpet did little to cushion his fall, and he felt the impact in his bone. But he had not fallen. And both beer bottles were still in his hands.

A wave of clapping filled the room, and Theon was intensely aware that all eyes were on him.

“Nice save, bunny,” Yellow Dick called out.

Theon’s face burned. He got back to his feet and trotted his way to the pool table, now mindful of straying hands.

“Your drinks, sirs,” he said with a smile.

Skinner and Alyn leered at him as they took their bottles. “Clumsy bunny,” Skinner snorted.

“Hop, hop!”

Theon turned, glad to be called away. The Boys were having great fun keeping him “hopping,” but the busier he was, the less time he had to spend with each one. He made his way over to Damon now, but before he could ask what he wanted, the large man had grabbed hold of his wrist and yanked him down into his lap. The springs of the old recliner groaned as Theon squirmed uncomfortably. Damon’s hand slid up his thigh and inwards, brushing against the thin fabric of the costume’s crotch.

“What are you—?” Theon tried to wriggle out. Even more than the hand itself was that Ramsay would be angry, _very angry_. “You shouldn’t—you’re not allowed—”

“It’s alright, Reek.” And there he was. Ramsay. Having decided to grace the party with his presence, at last, though he had probably been watching from the very beginning. Always watching. He leaned over the back of the recliner, a smug smile on his face. “I told them you’d be good to them. I’m willing to share for the night. I can be accommodating like that. But what about you?” He reached over and pinched Theon’s cheek. “You’re not smiling.”

Theon forced himself to smile, even though he felt like crying as Damon cupped him and kneaded him through the satin of his outfit. Lips brushed against his neck, against the bow-tie collar around his throat. “This is a good look for you, Reek,” Damon breathed, low and husky. Theon could feel him hardening against his backside. “Little bunny. You know what they say about bunnies, hmm?”

Theon’s face flushed, all the way to his exposed shoulders.

Damon’s lips smirked against his skin. “What do you say? Do you want to be _my_ little bunny?”

“I’m Ramsay’s,” Theon protested, keeping his hands firmly in his lap. “Only Ramsay’s.”

“That’s right,” Ramsay said. His voice was a purr of satisfaction. “But tonight, I’m being accommodating. What’s mine is yours, Damon.”

Damon grinned, and his strong hands wrapped around Theon’s waist.

Ramsay tapped Damon’s head. “There’s one condition for you playing with my toys. The outfit stays _on_. That means you only get to use his mouth and hands. Understood?”

“Understood,” Damon said gravely. He knew, as well as Theon, what disobeying Ramsay’s orders meant.

“That goes for all of you,” Ramsay said.

All of you? Theon looked up from his lap and realized every eye in the den was on him, watching him. He felt like a true rabbit then, caught out in the open, at the mercy of a pack of wolves. He smiled back the prickling sensation behind his eyes and Damon lifted him out of his lap and guided him to his knees on the floor.

***

He swished the mouthwash around, gargled it, swallowed it, but nothing would wash out the taste from the back of his throat. His jaw ached, and his gullet was rubbed raw. His stomach roiled, and he nearly heaved, thinking about mix of semen churning around in there. How he managed to keep it down, he would never know, but he was left panting, leaning heavily against the sink.

Downstairs, the party was dying off. The first rays of light were creepy in through the fogged glass window.

Theon twisted the cap back on the mouthwash and put it back on its shelf. As he closed the cabinet door, the mirror shoved his reflection into his face. He looked at himself. His eyes, dark with circles, red and bloodshot. The bodice of his outfit had been torn somewhere during the night, someone’s hands getting too rough. The hose was likewise torn, likely from kneeling on the rough carpet for hours on end. The bow tie and cuffs loose and sodden with…any number of things, really. The ridiculous rabbit ears, bent and twisted. In a sudden fit of rage, he yanked them off and tossed them to the floor. He kicked off the stilettos, felt the odd way the ground seemed to sink under his heels once they were gone.

He wanted to smash the mirror, punch it until both his fist and the glass were a bloody mess. But instead he just stood there, looking at himself. At his sweat-slicked hair. His swollen lips. The snot running from his nose and the crusted, unshed tears in his eyes. Why hadn’t he told Ramsay he didn’t want to serve his friends at their party? Why didn’t he say no when Ramsay showed him the costume? Why hadn’t he said _no_ to any of it?

_Because you don’t say no to Ramsay._

He leaned his forehead against the cool porcelain of the sink and finally let himself cry.


	17. Whipping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wodroths said: 
> 
> _I feel like Roose doesn't get enough credit for how terrifying he is, and he always was angry that he couldn't use Theon properly. Maybe one where Theon wasn't tortured much yet, just whipped and beaten a bit nothing serious. When Ramsay is about to really get to work on him, Roose walks in on them and decides instead to do to Ramsay some of what he had planned for Theon, as Theon watches. (I'll leave how far he goes up to you, but I'd love if he was especially cruel) Perhaps Theon is even torn between sympathy and hatred for Ramsay. Ultimately Roose should make sure everyone knows he's the true Lord of the Dreadfort._
> 
> The Roose is on the loose!

“What are you doing?”

The voice drifted in on another wave of pain. Theon had long since lost the ability to distinguish words, and the soft cadence was alien to him.

“Father, you’re back…early.”

“What are you doing, Ramsay?”

“We were just…interrogating our guest.”

“Get him down.”

Theon’s head lolled against the wooden beam. What were these words? He only knew the searing pain in his back from the whip. There was no room in his mind for anything else. Until he felt a slight tugging at his wrist. He didn’t know what that was. Something equally as horrible.

Then, inexplicably, he was light as a feather. His arms fell to his sides, bringing a different sort of pain. But he was being pulled from the cross, knees buckling. He was being guided away, guided to settle on the floor. It was so…cool beneath him.

“Lord Greyjoy.” More words. That calm voice. “Theon.”

There was a sharp noise, almost like the crack of a whip, and Theon jumped. His eyes blinked into focus on the fingers inches away from his face. Not a cracking. A snapping. His eyes moved past the fingers, up the length of the arm, to the cold, unfeeling face of Roose Bolton.

“He’s in shock,” Roose stated. “How long has this been going on, Ramsay?”

“I know a man’s limits.”

“Clearly you don’t.” Cold hands gripped Theon’s face, quelled the fire burning under his skin. “Theon, can you hear me?”

Theon managed a small nod. “Lord…Bolton.”

The hands disappeared. “This is not good, Ramsay. We need Theon to trade to the Greyjoys, and we need him whole. Not half-senseless from pain. How do you intend I explain these injuries to Balon Greyjoy?”

“You’re Warden of the North now, aren’t you? You don’t need to ‘explain’ anything.”

There was a pause. The fire in Theon’s skin turned to ice. He looked up, trying to force his eyes to focus on what was going on. It seemed important, but…

“How many lashes did you give the boy, Ramsay?”

There was no answer.

“Damon?”

“Yes…my lord.”

“How many?”

“I can’t rightly…twenty…twenty-five?”

“You weren’t counting?”

“I…no, my lord.”

Another pause. Theon shuddered.

“Damon, would you count the lashes on Theon Greyjoy’s back and tell me how many you gave him?”

“I…yes, my lord.”

Theon felt a warm body approach, blazing hot hands run down his back. He lurched forward with a strangled cry. His throat was raw from screaming already. It felt as if someone had shoved a hot poker all the way into his lungs.

“You can count without touching,” Roose’s cool voice said, cutting through the pain.

“Sorry, my lord.” The hand vanished quickly, and Theon was left on his hands and knees, panting, as the voice quietly counted behind him. It felt like forever. Just a soft mumbled string of numbers, and the pain in his back, sharp stabs alternating with aching heat. It left him breathless, struggling to breathe. And even breathing was hot, painful. “T-twenty six, my lord.”

“Twenty-six lashes,” Roose’s voice repeated. “Very well. Ramsay, strip.”

There was a longer pause.

“Father.” Ramsay laughed, but even in Theon’s dazed state, it didn’t sound right. It didn’t really sound like Ramsay’s laugh. “Surely you’re not—”

“But I am, Ramsay. I am deadly serious. Divest and brace yourself against the saltire, the way you had Lord Greyjoy bound just now. Do it, or I will _have_ you bound.”

The longest pause yet. Theon pushed himself up to his knees and hugged his arms to his chest. There was a rustling of fabric. He realized there were figures standing around him, but only one of them was moving, pulling the tunic over its head. The other two figures stood perfectly still, watching the other one strip to its waist, then walk hesitantly to the x-shaped beam.

“Brace,” Roose’s voice said. “You will do the counting. If you falter, we’ll begin again. Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” came the mumbled reply.

“Yes…?”

“Yes…my lord.”

“Damon. Begin.”

Theon knew the _swip_ sound of a leather whip being drawn, wound up. Had become intimately familiar with it, had come to anticipate that sound even before the crack. And even though he knew what was coming next, he still jumped. The crack rent the air, followed by a pained grunt.

“Count.”

“One.”

“Again, Damon.”

Another _swip-crack_. Another grunt. Low, angry, impotent.

“Two.”

“Is your wrist tired from whipping Lord Greyjoy, Damon? Shall I bring in a fresh man to show you how it’s done?”

“No, my lord. There’s no need.”

_Swip-crack_. A shriek. For a second, Theon thought it might be his own. His throat remembered making those noises. He drew in a breath. No, it hadn’t come from him. It had come from the figure leaning against the saltire. Even with his hazy vision, Theon could see the stripe of red against the figure’s pale back.

“How many is that, Ramsay?”

“Th…three.” That wasn’t his tormentor’s voice. His tormenter had _never_ sounded so…

“Again.”

_Swip-crack._

_Swip-crack._

_Swip-crack._

No shrieks were as loud as the first, but they came anyway. Devolving into whimpered grunts as the numbers grew higher. “Eight…nine…”

Theon didn’t want to hear. Didn’t want to see. The figure’s back was becoming a hatch mark of red, and he felt every crack of the whip as if it were on his own flesh. It was…it was taking so _long_. And every time the voice called out another number, it came a little more delayed, a little more ragged.

“Eleven…”

_Swip-crack._

“Twelve…”

He tried to focus on something else, anything else—how hot the air was, how cold and solid the stones under his knees—but how could he when every sound, _every_ sound, was another cut added to his skin? Those sounds _were_ his pain, and he couldn’t block them out. Even when he dug the palms of his hands against his ears, he could still could hear…

“Fif…teen…”

_Swip-crack._

“Six…tee…”

There was no finish. “Sixteen” became “sixty,” and then the figure slumped from the cross. If it made a sound as it hit the ground, Theon didn’t hear it. He drew in a breath, realized he _could_ breathe again. And that he was trembling.

Roose sighed. A drawn out sigh. “Damon, get him to his feet.”

Another figure hurried over to the slumped figure on the floor, knelt down next to it. “He’s…he’s unconscious, my lord.”

“’M…not,” the slumped figure protested. “Don’t touch me. I’m fine.”

“Good. Back on your feet, Ramsay. We’ll start again.”

“No.”

Theon’s voice echoed off the stones. Three figures turned to look at him.

“No, please,” he whimpered, hugging himself tighter. “No more.” He couldn’t stand it.

There was silence. Blessed, blessed silence.

“Of course.” Roose’s voice. “Damon, take Lord Greyjoy to the maester to have his wounds tended. Our guest is to be given his own room. And see that he is dressed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The blazingly hot hands were back again, but not on his back. On his arms, supporting him, lifting him up to his feet. His knees buckled. The hands were attached to arms that kept him from falling. There was a door, and he was being led toward it. Away from the cross, from the screaming and the sound of whips. He wanted to weep.

“And Damon.”

The guiding stopped. Theon froze in place, wavering.

“While you’re up, send a fresh man down to finish the job here. We’ll discuss your punishment later.”

“Yes, my lord.”

And then Theon was being hurried from the room.


	18. Chasing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RainingFire asked: 
> 
> _i was wondering if maybe you’d write something regarding hypnosis? Like Ramsay hypnotizes Theon into having sex with him? could be in modern au if it makes the hypnosis work better. it’d be awesome if Theon was the more prideful and stubborn version of himself rather than totally submissive, so the humiliation of him succumbing to the hypnosis would be even more satisfying._
> 
> I'll leave it up to you to decide how Ramsay, er..."convinces" Theon to sleep with him.

“Want to see a party trick?”

Theon snorted. _A fuckboy knows a fuckboy_ , he thought, and this guy was definitely a fuckboy. Probably thought he was hot shit with his designer clothes, but it was obvious he wasn’t used to them. Or maybe he thought he could make up for his lack of charm with his overwhelming arrogance. _Fake it till you make it_ , the amateurs said. Theon didn’t accept fakes.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Theon said, deliberately wrapping his hand around his drink and lifting it to his mouth, holding it just so. “You’re really not my type. I’m more into chasing than being chased. And even if I were, it would be by someone who puts more thought into their pickup lines.” He smirked over the lip of the glass. “Thanks for the drink though.”

The fuckboy didn’t seem perturbed. Arrogance will do that to you. He leaned his elbow against the bar and flashed a toothy smile. His canine teeth were especially sharp. Fanglike even. “I bet I can tell you your type.”

“Is that your party trick?”

“Part of it.”

Theon rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Just one chance.” Fuckboy held up a finger. “I bet I can guess your type.”

“I already know what you’re going to say. And trust me, I’m not into gutter trash, even if it tries to dress itself up.”

Fuckboy’s face darkened, just perceptibly. He leaned in, and Theon leaned back, suddenly wondering if he’d overstepped his bounds. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Let me tell you your type, then.” Fuckboy’s eyes were pale and intense as they bored into him. “You say you don’t like being chased, but the truth is, you crave it. You need it.” He brushed his fingertips along Theon’s knuckles, and even though every hair on his arm stood on end, Theon didn’t pull back. It was like he was frozen in place. “You need it so badly. To have someone better than you throw you onto the ground, pin you down, and fuck you until you’re too raw to spew your bullshit anymore. Isn’t that right?”

Theon tried to swallow, but his throat had become thick.

“You want to be chased. You want to be hunted. You want to run because you know only someone truly worthy can outrun you. And when that person does…” He traced his fingers up and down Theon’s arm, but Theon couldn’t tear his eyes away from the stranger’s. “…you won’t put up any fight, will you, _sweetheart_?”

Theon didn’t really remember leaving the club, or getting into a car, but as the mattress dipped under his weight, he thought he could recall glimpses of the city lights flashing by, an arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He also didn’t remember undressing, but here he was, sprawled out on a plush bed, his skin burning hot against the cool air. The stranger, trailing kisses to the inside of his thigh.

“What…?” The world was so hazy. And comfortable. “What should I call you?”

“Shhh,” the stranger said, breath teasing against his sensitive skin. “You shouldn’t talk at all.”

Theon groaned as a wet warmth engulfed his length. He was hard. He didn’t remember how or when that had happened either, but the stranger’s lips fit so well, seemed to know just what he needed and where. He wanted to move, to tangle his hands in the nameless stranger’s hair, but his body was too heavy. He couldn’t lift his hands or his head. All he could do was lie there. And that was fine.

As the stranger worked his dick with his mouth, he also cupped Theon’s ass and lifted his hip. Theon allowed it because he couldn’t do otherwise. And it was fine anyway. He felt fingers, cool with wetness, prodding at his entrance, tracing around the outside. The ring of muscles fluttered at the touch.

“Your body is eager me,” the stranger said.

Theon groaned, because the warmth was gone and his prick was still hard. Harder than it had ever been in his life, it seemed. He wanted to buck his hips, draw the stranger’s attention back where it needed to be, but of course he couldn’t.

“You need me.”

“Yes,” Theon agreed. Anything, _anything_. Just—

A finger slipped in, with only a slight amount of pressure. Theon felt the _pop_ of it. He let out a small groan.

“Is that good?”

“Not…enough…”

“Patience.”

The finger slid deeper, probing, searching. Theon wanted to help it find what it was looking for, but dammit he couldn’t move. His blood was fire raging under his skin. He swore he could feel his sweat sizzling. The salt of it stung his eyes.

“Hush, sweetheart.” The finger brushed the place inside him, and white lights flashed behind Theon’s eyes. “I always find what I’m looking for.”

A second finger wriggled in next to the first, joined by a third. Theon felt himself stretching to accommodate them. His breathing came fast and hard. “More…more…”

The stranger chuckled, and Theon whined as the fingers withdrew, leaving him cold and empty. He needed…he needed…

“Shhh.” Fingers brushed against Theon’s lips, and pale, intense eyes stared into his. The stranger’s gaze was just as heavy as his body, bearing down on Theon’s, pressing him into the mattress. Hands as hot as branding irons gripped Theon’s thighs, lifted both hips. Theon saw only those blue eyes as the stranger pushed into him.

The stretch of it was the hottest thing yet, molten and alive and filling every empty place inside him. He screamed, and the stranger’s grip grew tighter. It felt like he would burst. It felt like he would die if he _didn’t_ burst. Every move dragged against that spot inside him, driving him closer to bursting.

“Is it good?”

“Mmm,” Theon whined. He couldn’t stretch anymore. He was going to tear. All of his contents were going to spill out. “Mmmore?”

“More?”

With every ounce of strength he had, he was able to make himself nod. Just a single bob of the head.

He felt the stranger’s rumbling chuckle. “Of course, sweetheart.”

All the way in. So deep it dug all the way to the center. That place inside him he never let anyone see. Then the stranger was pulling back. Theon whimpered at the loss, until it drove back in, sharp and hard, penetrating all the way in again.

And again and again.

The bed was creaking. Theon could feel the springs of the mattress through the padding as the stranger pounded into him. Everything was solid and hazy at the same time. Wet and unbearably hot. And the pressure building. He needed to wrap his hands around something. He needed to be able to move. He needed…

He felt hands on his face. Looked up again into those pale blue eyes. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” the stranger’s voice whispered. “I’ve caught you.”

He burst.

***

The world faded in on the sound of the overhead fan, spinning lazy circles overhead. Theon blinked. His eyes were heavy. His face was swollen. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, and that fan. It creaked with every movement. The sound brought flashes back, but nothing that coalesced into an actual memory.

Where was he? This wasn’t his apartment.

The mattress was the only bit of furniture in the room, and it was bare—no sheets, no bed frame. He was stretched out on it, completely naked, an unimpeded view of the bruises up and down his arms. What had— _who_ had…?

He sat up and looked around. He was alone, but obviously he hadn’t come here by himself. Right?

His clothes were piled in the corner. With a groan, he stood. Pain flared in his backside. Something wet slid down his thigh. He could still feel…inside…

His face burned.

His head was still buzzing, but now it didn’t feel like _drunk_ buzzing. It felt like the haziness of coming out of a dream. The nausea sliding around in his stomach didn’t feel like hangover nausea either. Hangover nausea didn’t come with pins and needles at the base of your neck. Usually.

He tried to think back, to remember the last thing he _could_ remember. He’d gone to the club. Someone had ordered him a drink. Someone he’d told to fuck off. He never would have…that man must have put something in his drink!

His head pounded the more he tried to think. He remembered lifting the glass to his lips but…had he actually drunk from it? He couldn’t seem to recall. He could only conjure an image of pale eyes staring into his. The smell of sex filling his nostrils and the sensation of fire under his skin. Hands gripping his hips. Somewhere deep inside…

The things he’d…allowed that man to do to him…

He shook his head, but it did little to clear the fog. He needed a shower. But first he needed to get dressed and find out where he was so he could get home. Gingerly, he began dressing.

As he pulled on his pants, something fell out of the pocket and fluttered to the floor. A bit of paper, torn from a lined notebook. He bent—wincing at the movement—and picked it up and unfolded it. The note simply read:

_Thanks for the chase._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Vol. III. Thank you for all your prompts. I'll be doing Vol. IV shortly, so stay tuned.

**Author's Note:**

> Requests are closed while I fill. Check back in for Part IV if you have a prompt you'd like to see filled.


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